The Unloved, Plump Wife
Occasionally, Anthony caught himself thinking he wasnt living, just serving a life sentence and his jailer was none other than his own wife, Linda.
There was no avoiding her presence. She entered a room much like a thunderstorm on the horizon: heavy steps, a commanding voice that seemed to suck the air from the space. Linda was well-built, not to put too fine a point on it, but wasnt remotely bashful about her figure or her impressive appetite. Her dresses were almost offensively bright, her jewellery chunky enough to double as doorstops, and her laughter could drown out two televisions and the neighbours dog. Anthony, a quiet chap by nature, felt for six years like hed moved into a bustling open market, the sort where you develop a splitting headache just looking for carrots.
Theyd married six years ago, and you could smell the disappointment and white lies on the day itself. It all began on New Years Eve at a mutual friends party. Anthony, back then an awkward young engineer nursing an emotional hangover from a recent breakup, drank enough whiskey to cause a national shortage. The night dissolved into a montage of fairy lights, someone belting HAPPY NEW YEAR! and a glittery, accommodating body he couldnt quite place. He remembered the dress, but not the person inside it.
The following morning, parched, with a sense of impending doom, Anthony found a sleeping Linda beside him in a strangers flat. He slipped out, holding his breath surely any second hed wake up and realise it was all just a particularly vivid nightmare.
But the nightmare queued up for an encore. A month later, his phone rang. The voice was strong, clear and entirely unapologetic.
Anthony? Its Linda. Remember New Years? We need to talk.
They met at a cafe. Linda, in a pink jumper that reminded Anthony of a car cover, sat opposite him, unshakeable, eyes locked onto his.
Im pregnant. Its yours, no question. So what now?
It was the sort of question you cant dodge with a joke about the weather. Raised by a no-nonsense single mother, Anthony believed men paid for their mistakes. He couldnt remember a thing about that New Years, wasnt even sure anything had happened, but the lingering suspicion Is it even mine? never made it past his lips. It would have sounded sordid, even for him. He muttered something about support, about seeing where we are. Linda nodded as if collecting his payment.
They started seeing. He went to appointments, handed over money, bumped along in his battered Ford on visits to her parents in Brighton. Slowly, she became a fixture in his days a bit like a tax increase, heavy but inescapable. He kept his doubts to himself, swallowing them whole.
When their son, Samuel, was born, Anthony insisted on a DNA test. Linda exploded.
What, you think Id bring someone elses child home? Im not exactly off gallivanting! You should count yourself lucky that a real woman even looked at you!
The test was done. He was the father. Anthony looked at the tiny, pinched face in its hospital blanket, then at Linda, triumphant, and felt the jaws of fate snap shut on his future. Being decent, it turned out, was utterly exhausting. Still, he proposed. Linda said yes immediately not even a pretend hesitation.
That marked the real beginning of shared life. Linda, until then renting a cramped flat, moved into Anthonys tidy semi-detached in Bedford, upending his bachelor existence like a bulldozer. She rearranged all the furniture, hung up orange curtains that made him squint, filled the fridge with mayonnaise-laden salads and smoked meats. Her belongings spread across every surface, her perfume soaked into the very walls.
Anthony worked as a design engineer his days built from numbers, quiet, and neat diagrams. Home was now a combat zone. Before he crossed the front gate hed hear her. Shed be having a heartfelt debate with her mobile, or yelling at the telly louder than Jonathan Ross. When he came in, hed be assaulted with news, complaints, instructions.
Whereve you been? Dinners cold! Another one of your pointless work meetings? Had to pick up Sam from nursery again do you even remember youve got a family?
Anthony would change, wash his hands, prolonging the quiet before the next bombardment.
He began shamelessly admiring other women. The petite Abi from accounts who whispered so softly you had to lean in. The neighbour, a slender brunette who walked her cocker spaniel and always gave him the shyest of smiles. They were from a parallel universe: one of elegance and peace his universe, really, by birthright. Linda represented everything that repelled him: loud, outspoken, physically overwhelming.
Resentment built up year after year, like stubborn limescale. Soon, Anthony found everything about Linda intolerable. The way she smacked her lips at the table, her thunderous laughter at daft sitcoms, the baggy, past-its-best dressing gown she wore around the house, utterly unconcerned with how she looked. Even her style of care, robust and demanding, felt like loving tyranny.
One evening, everything boiled over. Anthony, destroyed by a migraine, returned home to find the house under siege by pop music, Sam wailing over his semolina, and Linda conducting both a phone conversation and Sams feeding at full volume.
Yes, Mum, I know! Sam open your mouth, I said! Dont you start!
Anthony lingered in the hallway, each shout an ice pick in his skull. He hung up his coat, took a deep breath, and went into the kitchen.
Could you turn off the music, please? Ive got a splitting headache.
Linda paused just long enough to size him up. What? The music? Its background for ambience! Dont like it, go to the lounge. Sam did I not just tell you?!
Linda, turn it off. Now. Anthony raised his voice which, for him, was practically unheard of.
She huffed, but reached for the kitchen TV remote. In that moment, Sam sensing his chance whacked his spoon into the full bowl. Semolina splattered on the linoleum, and a blob landed squarely on Lindas dress.
With a roar that would terrify any wildlife, she hurled her phone to the table, grabbed Sams arm, and shook him.
You little brat! I cook for you, I try and this is my reward? Look at my dress! Just you wait!
Anthony saw the terror in Sams teary face. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed his own precious mug teetering at the tables edge, ready to be elbowed off a gift from Abi at work. He took two steps, switched the TV off, and bellowed:
Let him go. Right now.
Linda froze, stunned. Sam wriggled free and bolted to his room.
Who do you think you are, telling me what to do? she hissed, collecting herself. Im disciplining our child!
Thats not discipline, thats a fit. Youre always shouting. At him, at me, at your phone. I cant take it.
Lindas jaw dropped. Shed grown used to Anthonys passive withdrawals a direct confrontation was new.
Oh, poor thing! Slightest raised voice and you wilt! You should be grateful to have a family realistically, youd probably have died alone in your little man cave!
Possibly, Anthony replied, with unexpected calm. But at least it wouldve been quiet. Right now, Im burning out. I look at you, and I dont know how I got here. Ive never liked plump women. Or loud ones.
Ah, so thats it! she shrieked, tears of rage starting up. Not pretty enough, not one of your porcelain figurines from work? Got your eye on Abi, the quiet mouse? I saw how you look at her.
Anthony didnt bother protesting.
Its not about her, Linda. Its about me. I live with someone I cant love, and even for Sams sake I cant go on. Im suffocating.
Hed finally said it, let the poison out. Weirdly, it felt as though the years-long ringing in his ears had ceased.
Linda stared, chest heaving. Her face, usually so bold, seemed to sag. In her eyes flickered incomprehension, then bitter hurt.
Right then, she said, nearly sobbing. Six years and a child all for nothing. Just because Im fat and loud. Whose fault is that, brainbox? Who crawled into my bed paralytic drunk? Did I drag you there? You did it yourself! Now its my fault?
Its not your fault that youre you, Anthony said quietly, and not mine that Im me. Were just different. Its like two species trying to share the same burrow. Weve made a terrible mistake, and the longer this goes on, the worse itll get. Most of all for Sam.
Linda turned away, scowling out the window at the early dusk.
So what now? she asked, at last without her former fire.
Im filing for divorce, Anthony replied. Well sort out the house and money. Ill pay you whats right, and I want to see Sam every weekend, more if I can. No drama.
No drama? She gave a bitter laugh. Easier said. Where am I supposed to go? I wont find a proper job, not with a child. And its your house.
Well figure it out. Ill help with the rent at first.
The house was tension and silence for a week. Bare minimum words, mostly about Sam. Anthony slept on the pull-out in the lounge.
Linda seemed to deflate. She wore old joggers instead of her usual technicolour outfits, spoke softly, barely. Sometimes Anthony caught her staring blankly at the kitchen tiles, dishes untouched in the sink. The endless cacophony that once drove him mad, faded.
One evening, he stepped out for a cigarette while Linda was putting Sam to bed. Through the open window drifted her singing a gentle, slightly off-key lullaby. Shed never sung before. Anthony stood still, smoke curling around him, heart pounding with an unexpected jolt of guilt.
He filed for divorce after another weeks contemplation. It was a dreary slog: tears, outbursts, pleas, but in truth, it was over that night in the kitchen when he finally confessed to himself.
On court day, Anthony stood before the mirror, tying his tie. He caught his reflection gaunt, eyes shadowed, but also a fresh, resilient steadiness. Freedom wasnt the exuberant kind, but it was a new sort of life lonely, with maintenance payments and fortnightly visits with Sam.
He sighed, adjusted his knot, picked up his documents, and went out.
Divorce was a grind. Linda, after her initial quiet, rallied for a last stand. She didnt cry, but fought for every penny, every hour with Sam. Anthony, burnt out, surrendered to most terms just to be done. He gave her almost all his savings and paid for a flat in Milton Keynes for six months. He won weekends with Sam.
The house, once noisy, was now hauntingly quiet. The silence hed craved pressed in on his ears. He ached for Sam. But the thought of returning to all the havoc and thunder was repellent. There was no going back.
Which is when Abi, the porcelain figurine from accounts, began lingering by the coffee machine. Anthony, you look dreadful, she murmured one day, hand light on his sleeve. Its all so tough. You shouldnt be alone.
Her voice was gentle anaesthetic to his battered nerves. She was everything hed imagined: petite, dainty features, always perfectly tastefully dressed. She smelt of delicate, expensive soap and freesias not heavy perfume. Anthony felt, with her, like a gallant knight.
They started dating. First, little outings for coffee; then, the odd cinema visit, where she watched silently while he admired her refined profile off the glow of the screen. Abi seemed an oasis of composure and style. Their first proper kiss outside her block made Anthony think hed stumbled into the life he always wanted.
Abi, it turned out, was obsessed with appearance not just her own, but the harmony of her entire realm. She would critique a dessert for how well itd photograph, not flavour. Her flat was a beige-and-white showroom, nothing out of place except the odd scented candle. For Anthony used to lived-in clutter it was like visiting a gallery.
You know, Im not sure that vase works with the lines of the console table, Abi would muse from her perfectly made sofa.
She considered herself more than just attractive she was a present to him, a present that needed the proper wrap and upkeep.
Darling, did you see those Italian stilettos? Honestly, theyd complete me. The price is criminal, but a real woman must have one pair. Its an investment, really.
And so, he bought the shoes. Then the handbag. Then the facial at some West End miracle worker who charged half Anthonys salary for twenty minutes with cucumber on her eyes. His savings for a new car, for holidays, for Sams birthday dwindled for Abis maintenance. Thats just how it should be, he reasoned. Men provide; especially for a woman like her. Her value was in her presence, her aesthetic, her gracious, enigmatic self.
Within a few months, Abi lamented her studio was too expensive. Anthony eagerly suggested she move in. Next thing, four massive suitcases and the slow displacement of his entire home began. Her pristine beige aesthetic staged a coup on his bulky furniture and wallpaper.
Oh, Anthony, this sofas sucking all the life from the room! she sighed on arrival. And these curtains theyre straight out of a Travelodge. Well have to do something.
By we, she meant him, naturally. Every weekend was now spent in stylish homeware shops. All his spare cash went on the right sofa, the right lamp, the right scatter cushions. His house was soon a show home: stylish, soulless, and incapable of betraying a hint of Sam whose toys and drawings were packed away to avoid ruining the vibe.
He soon realised living with Abi was not simply hard it was intolerably different. Where Linda had been a noisy bulldozer, Abi was a web, delicate but unbreakable: controlling every penny, every minute.
She did absolutely nothing around the house Domesticity is for the unambitious and tasteless, she declared.
Sweetheart, I had a manicure today, shed say, perched on the designer sofa with her iPad, while Anthony scrubbed dishes after work. You wouldnt want to ruin it, my hands are so sensitive.
Im knackered, Abi, he tried, once.
So am I, she replied, not looking up. Also, were out of that Swiss coffee bean blend whatever you picked up, its bitter.
Cooking? She saw it as the domain of servants or deeply dull women. Their dinners were mostly fancy takeaways, or grim home attempts by Anthony.
She took no interest in his exhaustion or his worries about Sam. Her world orbited solely around herself: her looks, her experiences, her comfort. Even the rows with Linda, however shrill, had been an actual dialogue however loud. Abis conversation was pure one-woman show: I, me, my his role was to fetch, pay, and applaud.
One Friday, particularly worn out, he brought home peonies (her favourite). He hoped theyd have a simple meal, a film, a human moment.
Abi thanked him with a poised smile, arranged the flowers, snapped a few for Instagram, then said, Oh, Ive booked us a table at that crazy-expensive riverside spot. Interiors are to die for. Blue tie, please, looks best in Stories. And could you shave, darling?
Anthony slumped into a chair, looking at her perfect figure and recalled how, on Fridays, Linda would fry up a pan of potatoes with mushrooms, garlic heavy, shouting, Anthony! Eat while its hot! It irritated him then, but it was alive rough, but generous and didnt demand he be anyone but himself.
Abi I dont want to go out. Im exhausted. Sundays my day with Sam and I need to sleep.
She turned, genuinely affronted. What? I already booked! These tables are gold dust. Do you get how lucky you are?
Im aware. Its just your plans are always the plans. Sometimes I want a break.
A break? Here? She glanced disdainfully about the home hed rebuilt for her. Mmm. To marinate in this bland mediocrity? Anthony, I didnt get with you to spend my life stagnating. I bring class, style, aspiration! You suggest a break. Like your dull life with with your fat Linda.
It was meant as an insult, but instead, it woke him up. He realised instantly hed traded one kind of prison messy and noisy for another: sleek, silent, but coldly selfish. Linda had at least given something: temper, energy, care-tyranny. Abi only took. She consumed everything money, time, dignity camouflaged as elevated living.
Youre right, Anthony said calmly. Youre not for this and, apparently, neither am I.
He stood, went to the bedroom, and began to pack her things in a sports bag. Abi hovered in the doorway, in growing disbelief.
You are what, actually ending this? Over something so trivial?
Its not trivial, Abi. I thought I wanted quiet and straight lines. I was wrong. Sorry.
Abi left, loudly. Surprise: she could make a racket when provoked. Accusations flew about her wasted time and how he should grovel for the privilege of her company. He didnt really listen.
And so solitude, at last.
A week passed. A month. In the silent evenings washing his single dinner plate, his mind often against his will strayed back to Linda.
He found himself recalling not her shouting, but the odd, gentle moments when she sat up all night with Sam, feverish and fussy, crooning nonsense. That day shed baked a cake after an office win, as if it were a showstopper from Bake Off. Her laughter at dumb TV gags so inappropriate it made him smile despite himself.
He remembered her care clumsy, in-your-face, plain, but care. Shed check hed eaten, even if it meant yelling from three rooms away. She bought him socks. She, for better or worse, shared life with him. Abi was a pretty portrait to be kept, displayed, admired.
The thought of getting Linda back started, like a weed, taking root admitting defeat, really, on all counts. Maybe this was just his lot. Maybe he was never meant for a proper life. Maybe chaos was the price of not being alone, the price of seeing Sam grow.
He took out his phone. His finger hovered over her name. His heart pounded; his mouth was dry. Making that call meant surrendering admitting the great battle for freedom had been nonsense. Humiliating. But staying with the iciness was something he couldnt do anymore.
He dialled. Rings went on and on. He was about to give up when the call was answered.
Hello? Lindas voice, utterly matter-of-fact as if shed been expecting the call since the day he left.
Anthony closed his eyes. He had to say the first word. And that word would decide everything that came next. He took a deep breath, ready for surrender, for a return to the past hed worked so hard to escapeHe almost lost his nerve, but forced himself on. Linda. Its me.
A pause. He heard, distantly, a cartoons jingle and Sams squeal of laughter.
Yeah? Well, you must be desperate, she said, her tone armour-plated but with a thread of curiosity. Or drunk. Which is it?
Neither. I just wanted to talk. See how you and Sam are getting on. Maybe
You want me to scream, swear at you? she interrupted, but her voice softened. Too tired for that.
No. I came to say I was wrong. I thought I knew what I wanted. I chose wrong. Thats its all there is.
He heard her sharp intake of breath. Seconds ticked. Something clanked her ring sliding on the phone, probably.
Well, she said finally, were still here. Sam misses you, you know. He builds pillow forts and shouts at his teddies guess who he yells at the most Her laugh was small, a little brittle. You made your choice, Anthony.
I know. I did. But I never asked Would you want to meet? For coffee. With Sam. Just talk. Maybe start again, as parents, at least. As friends?
A longer silence, filled with the possibility of open doors or slammed ones. Then:
I can do friends. No promises past that. Youll have to work harder than a phone call if you want to be anything more again. But Sam needs both of us. Thats true. Im free Saturday. Theres a greasy spoon by ours. No lattes, all yelling. Might suit you now.
He nearly smiled. Saturday, then. Ill bring puzzles. And some of that posh cheese Sam likes.
Make it two, and a chocolate bun. Dont be late Ill start without you.
Wouldnt dare.
And as Anthony hung up, the silence in his house had changed. Softer around the edges. Promise, he realised, comes not in the grand new beginnings, but in the humility of returningdifferent, bruised, yet open.
Hed been the quiet man dreaming of the perfect life only to learn nothing perfect ever lets you live. Maybe chaos, love, and loudness were what made home, after all. Maybe it was enough, this time, simply to try again imperfectly, but with heart.
That Saturday, under the fluorescent light and bacon-scented haze, Anthony slid into the booth beside Linda and Sam, and for the first time in years, let himself laugh, even if it was too loud.
