Sat in the car park after the big shop, I was just stacking the bags into the trolley. James had wandered off outside while I paid at the till, like it had nothing to do with him. Packed up, I pushed the trolley out and found him leaning against the wall, having a fag.
“James, love, here,” I said, handing him the two heaviest Tesco bags. “Take these your end.”
He looked at me like I’d asked him to hand over his wallet. “What’s up with you carrying them?” he said, dead casual.
Honestly, it threw me. What did he mean, ‘What’s up with me’? Since when does asking your bloke to carry the bags count as unreasonable? Blokes help with the heavy stuff. It’s just… basic, isn’t it? Him strolling along empty-handed while I struggle looks well off.
“They’re dead heavy, Jamie,” I pointed out.
“So?” He kept on, like it was some big ask.
I could see he knew I was getting annoyed. But he was digging his heels in, point-blank refusing. He started power-walking ahead, leaving me stood there – knew I couldn’t keep up. ‘Take the bags?’ He was clearly fuming inside. ‘What, am I your skivvy? Your bloody lapdog? I’m the man here! I decide! She can lug them herself, won’t kill her.’ Felt like he just fancied testing me today, seeing what he could get away with.
“James! Where you going? Take the bags!” I shouted after him, feeling myself well up.
They *were* dead heavy. He knew it – he’d piled half that stuff in the trolley himself! The flat was only five minutes up the road. But when you’re weighed down, it feels like miles.
I trudged along, blinking back tears. Kept hoping he was just winding me up, that any second he’d turn back. But no. I watched him get smaller and smaller down the road. He wasn’t coming back. Half wanted to dump the lot right there, but ended up lugging them home in a daze.
Made it to our building and just collapsed onto the bench near the entrance. Wanted to cry, proper sob from the mix of hurt and knackered legs. But you don’t bawl your eyes out on the pavement, do you? Mortifying. Still, couldn’t just swallow it – him being like that wasn’t just hurtful, it felt like he wanted to embarrass me. He was all attentive *before* we tied the knot. Worst part? He knew *exactly* what he was doing.
“You alright there, Sophie love?” A voice snapped me out of it. Old Mrs Evans from flat two floors down.
“Hello, Mrs Evans,” I managed, forcing a smile.
Mrs Evans, known to everyone as Margot, had lived here forever. She was thick as thieves with my Nan before she passed. Known her since I was knee-high, really another grandma to me. After Nan went, when things got tricky sorting the flat or bills, Margot was always the one who helped. Dad’s not in the picture, Mum’s up Newcastle way with her new fella and their kids. So Margot became my proper family.
Without even thinking, I decided she was having these bags. No point lugging them up for him. Margot’s pension’s tight, so I bring her bits when I can, little treats.
“Come on, Mrs, I’ll carry these up to yours,” I said, hoisting the heavy bags again.
Up in her flat, I plonked them on her kitchen counter. “All for you, love.”
Seeing the nice tinned salmon, the fancy custard creams, even those peaches in syrup she loves but never buys – she got so emotional. Bless her, she looked near tears. Made me feel awful I didn’t do it more often. We hugged goodbye, proper tight, and I went up to ours.
Soon as soon as I opened the flat door, James was there, halfway through a biscuit.
“Where are the bags?” he chirped, like he hadn’t just abandoned me.
“What bags?” I shot back, matching his daft tone. “You mean the ones you helped me carry?”
“Aw, come off it!” He tried a laugh. “Don’t tell me you’re narked about that?”
“No,” I said, dead calm. “Just worked a few things out.”
He went still then. Probably braced for shouting, tears, the works. This chilled-out quiet clearly unnerved him.
“Worked what out?” he asked, cautious now.
“I haven’t got a husband.” I just held his gaze, cool as anything. “Thought I married one, turns out I married a proper plonker.”
“Charming,” he huffed, playing the wounded lad.
“What’s unclear, James?” I asked him plain. “I want a husband who acts like a bloke. Seems you… want a missus who acts like a bloke too.” Took me a second. “Then you’re gonna need your *own* husband, aren’t you?”
Saw his face flush beetroot, fists clenching. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t stay to watch either. I just walked past him into the bedroom and started grabbing his clothes.
He kicked off big style, spluttering about not leaving. Honestly seemed bewildered. Couldn’t grasp how him not carrying bags could possibly mean chucking him out.
“This is mad! It was fine! Just carry the bags yourself, what’s the fuss?” he kept ranting while I stuffed his gear into a bin liner.
“You *can* carry your own bag out, at least,” I cut him off sharp. “See it off the premises.”
I knew, right down in my gut. Let this slide? This was just the starter. He’d only push further next time. He’d start expecting it. So I shut it down. Took that bin liner, opened the door, and put it down outside. Job done.
I Thought I Was Married…
