You know, it was just your average Friday evening in the middle of autumn you know the sort: the skys already dark, and the blocks of flats glow with warm windows along the high street. Mark hes in his early thirties finally trudges into his twelfth-floor flat in some typical London suburb, holding a carrier bag from Sainsburys, stacked with all the weekend essentials: some blue cheese (because Emilys mad about it), a posh salami, cherry tomatoes, a bottle of Italian wine, and naturally an indulgent box of chocolate eclairs for his wife.
Normally when he got in, the flat would be buzzing; Emily always made a fuss of him, leaping onto his neck, firing questions about where hed been, who hed seen, why hed been gone so long. Today though? Silence. No music from her bedroom, no pattering about in her ridiculous bunny slippers.
Emily? Im home! he shouted, kicking off his shoes and listening out.
Nothing.
Mark wandered into the sitting room, dropped the bag on the coffee table, and headed for the bedroom. What he saw gave him a jolt Emily sprawled sideways across their enormous bed, face buried in a pillow, thin shoulders shaking, her long dark hair all over the duvet.
Whats wrong? he asked gently, inching nearer, Are you alright?
Emily suddenly flopped over onto her back. Her eyes, all puffy with smudged mascara on her cheeks, shot him a tortured look, full of silent accusation.
Dont you know? she wailed, her voice trembling and theatrical. I feel dreadful, Mark. Absolutely dreadful. So dreadful that I dont even want to live anymore.
He sat on the edge of the bed, out of habit, hand reaching to touch her forehead. She recoiled as if he were contagious, rolling her shoulders away.
What hurts? Have you got a fever? he asked, forcing calm into his voice, though inside he was already bracing for the brewing row six years of marriage had taught him this script by heart.
My soul hurts! she shrieked, burying her face in her pillow again and sobbing, louder this time. And you dont even ask how I am! You come home from work and cant be bothered to come find me, hug me, kiss me! Im in here dying of loneliness and youre faffing about in the shops, wasting time on all sorts of rubbish!
Emily, I just popped to the shop to get food for the weekend for you. You wanted those eclairs, remember? I made a detour by the place at the station because theyre always fresh there, Mark said, patiently, like hed explain to a grumpy toddler.
Oh, eclairs! she huffed, sitting up, hair a mess. Hurt flickered alongside a glimmer of triumph shed caught him red-handed, she thought, trying to bribe her with treats. You think you can buy me off with eclairs? All I wanted was a hug, for you to tell me Im beautiful, that Im your favourite. But you you just come home with that carrier bag like Im invisible in your life!
Mark kept quiet, jaw clenched so tight his teeth felt they might splinter. Hed heard it all before: the pregnant pause, the expectation that hed make the first move throw himself at her feet, hug her, wipe her tears, apologise for imaginary sins, and then literally sweep her off to the kitchen where her eclairs awaited.
Tonight, though, he was empty. The boss had been on one all day, clients missing deadlines, and honestly he hadnt a single ounce of energy left for this circus. He just wanted to sit down quietly.
How about we eat first, yeah? he suggested, standing up heavily. Im knackered. Lets just sit in the kitchen, have some wine, your eclairs talk like normal people.
Normal?! she shrieked, her voice going higher and higher. In a flash she leapt up, pounding her tiny fists into his chest in hysterics. Youre tired? You?! And Ive just been here lounging about, have I? Ive just finished a massive clean of the whole flat while youre out sipping coffee with your secretary! My backs killing me, my hands are raw, and what do you do? You dont even make me tea or bother to ask about my day! You selfish, cold-hearted bastard! You only ever think of yourself!
Mark caught her wrists, shocked by how thin and birdlike they felt. Shed always been little and delicate, and when they first met, that vulnerability of hers had pulled him in made him want to shield her from the world. Hed never suspected that being fragile could be more dangerous than a nuclear bomb.
Let go, that hurts! she howled, wriggling free. Then, sniffling, she staggered off to the window and pressed her back to him, dramatically staring out at the city lights, shaking with sobs.
With a long, deep breath, Mark went to the kitchen, opened the wine, poured himself a full glass and downed it like water. Then another, which he carried back to the bedroom.
Emily, have some wine, please, he offered, voice softer.
She wheeled around, face tearless now, but with a stony, furious glare. Get that away from me, she hissed. Dont try to drown your guilt with wine. You dont love me, Mark. I get it now. You just pity me.
Why would you say that? he groaned, placing the glass on the chest of drawers.
Because! she jabbed a finger into his chest. I can see the way you look at me like Im a piece of furniture! You used to run home to me, bring me flowers, treat me like a queen, and now? Ugh. Youre always buried in work. What about me? Am I nothing to you?
Mark stayed silent, now fully aware that anything he said would immediately be twisted to indict him. This wasnt a chat. It was a witch-hunt.
Right, he said at last, defeated. Im going to eat. Join me if you like.
He walked away, feeling her stare burning a hole in his back. He got out the cheese, sliced some bread, poured more wine, studiously avoiding thoughts about what would come next.
Of course, what came next was straight out of a rerun.
Five minutes later, Emily barrelled into the kitchen, swept the cheese from the table and smashed the plate to the floor. Porcelain shattered in every direction, the cheese squashed on the tiles.
What are you doing?! Mark roared, surging to his feet. Have you lost your mind?
Thats what you get! she screeched, standing there, cheeks flushed, eyes blazing. Maybe now youll notice me when I walk into a room! I rush around for you, clean up after you, and you just sit there pretending I dont exist!
She grabbed at the wine bottle, about to throw that too, but Mark was quicker and caught her arm; wine spilled over the floor and glass shards, the deep red soaking the tile.
Let go! she wailed, wriggling. Let me GO, you beast!
Enough, he muttered between his teeth, gripping her wrist until she yelped with pain. Thats enough!
It hurts! Let go!
He released her, and she nearly slipped on the wine, clutching the windowsill to steady herself. Mark looked at the mess, feeling nothing but rage.
Look what youve done, he said quietly, sweeping an arm across the room.
Ive done?! she lunged again. Its your fault! If you actually cared about me, this wouldnt happen!
He got out the dustpan and started sweeping. Emily glared, then suddenly snatched the broom from his hands and flung it into the sink.
Dont you dare tidy up! Let everyone see what youre like! Let them all see what you do to me!
Who? The neighbours? Mark asked, exhausted. Who cares, Em?
The neighbours! Let them know what a monster you are! Maybe theyll finally realise!
They already know, he chuckled bitterly. They can probably recite our rows by heart by now.
Sad truth: next door was a young couple with a newborn, and by now they probably recognised every single aria from their family melodramas. Sometimes Mark suspected they fell silent just to eavesdrop on Emilys rages.
Youre LAUGHING now?! she shrieked. Youre laughing at me?!
Im not, Emily. Nothings funny about any of this.
He dropped the broom in defeat and wandered into the sitting room, slumped in his armchair and shut his eyes. It all went round his head: how it had started, meeting Emily at a mates birthday. Shed been so lively, sparkling like champagne, twenty-two to his twenty-three, the only child of doting parents a former teacher mum and a dad with a string of successful garages. Showered with gifts, money, attention, always kept smiling. If she cried, theyd bend over backwards to fix things for her.
Even when dating, Emily showed her colours: sulking if he was five minutes late, throwing a tantrum if her meal was wrong at a restaurant. Mark, smitten, put it down to her youth, her sensitivity. He believed really believed that with time, love would make her change. He was so wrong.
After the wedding, it got even worse. Her parents took a huge step back and all her demands now landed squarely on him. He had to be the perfect husband, anticipating every whim: father, mother, nurse, clown, servant all rolled into one.
She expected him to baby her non-stop: every morning started with him bringing her coffee in bed, kissing her nose, telling her how gorgeous she was. Every evening he was expected to cuddle her, stroke her head, then listen to her whining about her hard day spent scrolling her phone and doing face masks. Presents had to be never-ending not always expensive, just as regular as vitamins. Treats every single day. God help him if he forgot her favourite yoghurt it was nuclear.
You dont love me! shed scream. You dont think about my little pleasures! You dont care about me!
If he dared say he was practically killing himself at work keeping their lives afloat, shed burst into tears, sobbing as if shed been denied her favourite doll. And oddly, it didnt have that devastating effect on Mark that people warn you about. He felt only a grinding resentment, because he saw those tears for what they were: a tactical weapon.
In the end, she figured out that crying didnt really work anymore Mark had developed the resilience to walk away and leave her to it. So she tried a new move threatening ailments.
Mark, I dont feel right at all, shed sigh, sinking back on the bed. My heart hurts my heads spinning. Must be my blood pressure.
Hed dash to check it always normal offer to call an ambulance. That was never necessary, though; no, she just wanted him right there, fussing over her, making her tea, petting her head, checking in on her minute by minute.
Shed lie there, milking it, directing him with a weak voice:
Mark, can you straighten my blanket get me some water, but not too cold sit with me, Im scared alone rub my temples, Ive got a migraine
Hed do laps round the bed, a reluctant carer, simmering inside. If he dared leave for five minutes to check his emails, shed fly into a new tantrum.
Youre abandoning me! Work is more important than your dying wife!
And it always ended the same way. If he didnt respond at lightning speed, shed leap up, miraculously cured, and storm off to smash plates in the kitchen. Shed grab whatever was closest bowl, mug, salad plate and hurl it to the floor. The crashing sound calmed her, somehow. After, she might even help clean up if he begged.
What is it with you and breaking the dishes? hed groan after another shattering.
What else am I supposed to do? she replied, dead serious. You never listen, so I have to go nuclear. Its cheaper than therapy.
Cheaper? Hed gesture at their battered kitchen, already on its third dinner set this year. Do the maths on what this has cost us.
Dont push me to the brink and I wont break anything! was her glorious comeback.
Mark was exhausted. He wanted real, grown-up love. He wanted to come home to a smile, a hug, maybe just a quiet evening with no endless monologues about why hes rubbish. He wanted sex to be an act of affection, not a reward for buying her a new treat. He wanted a woman, not a moody five-year-old in a thirty-year-olds body.
But how do you change someone with all this deeply ingrained? To her, this was just normal life. Its what shed been shown: if you want something, cry, demand, smash a few plates. The universe would hand itself over. And it had, until he came along.
The next morning was Sunday. Mark woke early, Emily still asleep. He made himself a coffee, sat in the bleak kitchen and stared out at the grey sky. He decided today hed have it out, for good.
Around eleven, she shuffled in, face puffy from last night, wrapped in her dressing gown, poured herself a coffee and sat opposite, silently glaring at the wall.
Emily, we need to talk, he started, steady.
About what? she shot back, still not meeting his gaze.
About us. About this. I cant go on like this.
Oh its you who cant cope? She spun towards him, eyes blazing up again. Its ME who cant cope! I cant live with someone who doesnt care about me!
Em, listen to yourself. Dont you think youre acting more like a tantrum-throwing child than a grown woman?
Im a child, am I?! her voice climbed a new octave. Well, who cleans the flat? Who cooks? Who looks after you?
You clean? he snorted. We have a cleaner in twice a week. Meals? In six years youve made scrambled eggs ten times if that. Caring? You care only about yourself.
How dare you! she yelled, knocking over her mug. Coffee pooled across the table. You ungrateful cow! I pour my heart out for you!
Sit down, Mark cut in, surprisingly firm. Sit and listen.
She sat, not because she wanted to but because she was genuinely shocked by his new tone.
I do love you, he told her. But Im shattered by your rows, the smashed crockery, always having to display how much I love you like Im on trial. I dont want this performance every night. I want a real family not this parent-and-teen dynamic.
So Im awful? she pouted. Tears re-appeared. So I dont deserve you?
Im not calling you awful. Im saying things have to change. You need to grow up a bit. Try listening to me once in a while. Stop using tears and sickness to get your way.
Im manipulating you?! She screeched. Excuse me, but I actually am ill! My nerves are shot! And its you making me that way!
Em, whenever you want something, you cry or faint, and then the second I cave, you make a miraculous recovery. Thats not illness. Thats blackmail.
She stared, gobsmacked. She didnt expect this. Normally hed give in anything to keep her from screaming. But this time hed dug his heels in.
Youre youre a monster! she whispered. You never loved me! You only married me for the money from my parents!
What money? Mark frowned. We live in my flat the one I bought before you. And apart from holidays, your parents havent given us a penny.
Thats just your version! she stormed. You just used me, and now youre throwing me out like trash!
Mark realised it was pointless. She only heard what she wanted. No matter what he said, he wound up the villain.
Im going out, he mumbled, standing up. I need to clear my head.
Going? She blocked the door. Youre not going anywhere! Were not done!
We are, Emily. Ive said what I needed to say.
Oh yeah?! Her face contorted with fury and she grabbed the crystal biscuit dish her mothers gift and hurled it at the floor. It shattered into a thousand twinkling shards that skittered everywhere.
Mark just looked at the mess and then at her, breathless, watching for his response. He didnt flinch.
Finished, or have you got more to smash? he asked calmly.
What? she blinked.
Plates, mugs, whatever. Because if not, Im leaving.
He stepped around her, put his coat on, and laced his shoes. She ran out, grabbed at his sleeve.
Dont you dare leave! Youve got no right! Youre my husband!
Thats precisely why Im leaving, he replied, unclasping her fingers. Because I cant do this anymore.
He closed the front door behind him. A loud thud echoed after him something heavy hurled against the inside in fury.
He took the lift down, out into the wet night, wandering the silent pavements, kicking leaves, studying passing faces and wondering: how had it come to this? He had loved her, really loved her.
He ducked into a café, bought a flat white and a slice of Victoria sponge, found a window seat. His phone wouldnt stop buzzing. Emily called every five minutes; he sent her to voicemail. Then came the texts some furious, some pleading, some more insults, then one from her mum.
What do you think youre playing at? Where are you? Emilys having a breakdown, her hearts acting up! Get back here and apologise immediately to my daughter!
Mark snorted. Her mum was just the same a seasoned manipulator. Shed always stuck up for Emily, always blamed someone else. Thats why Emily smashed plates: shed been taught it worked.
He didnt reply. Switched off his phone, ordered another coffee.
He only went home when it was late and truly quiet. The flat was dark. Shards of the crystal dish still littered the kitchen floor no one had cleaned up. Emily was in the bedroom, facing the wall, pretending to sleep. He just got out the dustpan and brush, tidied up, mopped the floor, and bedded down on the sofa.
Next morning, Emily came out puffy-eyed and quiet, sat next to him on the sofa, laid her head on his shoulder.
Mark, Im sorry, she whispered. Im being stupid. I didnt mean it. I was scared when you left. I thought you wouldnt come back.
He said nothing.
I love you, she tried again. Honestly. Ill do better. Please dont leave me, okay? Please?
He looked at her: she suddenly seemed tiny, pathetic, fragile in her fluffy gown, with messy hair and red eyes. His heart twinged. Again.
Em, he managed, I just dont know. Youve promised before, and it only lasts a week.
This times different, she insisted fervently. Ill see someone a therapist. Seriously. Ive already booked in. Look!
She shoved her phone under his nose, open to the website of some local psychology practice. Mark breathed out, tired.
Fine, he said. Give it a try. But this is the last time.
She threw her arms round his neck, smothered him in kisses, gushed how amazing he was, how much she adored him. And he believed her, or let himself believe it. Because the alternative admitting six years had been a waste was just too frightening.
Two weeks rolled by. Emily went to therapy twice, even showed him her scribbly notes. The flat was calm, relatively speaking. You could tell she was gritting her teeth, and if she felt a tantrum coming on, shed flounce into another room to breathe deeply, just as her therapist had taught. Mark started to feel hopeful.
And then inevitably it all blew up again. He stayed late at work, just one hour. Texted to say hed be late. She replied, Okay, see you soon. But when he walked through the door, old Emily was back in full swing.
Where were you? she shrieked.
I told you, I needed to finish with a client.
You said half an hour, its been an hour. Where was the extra thirty minutes?
Emily, I was stuck on the A4. I even called
Liar! her eyes were wild now. You were with her!
With who?
That Natasha the admin girl! You think I dont know?
Emily, come on. I dont even remember what she looks like.
Oh dont you? You bought her a coffee at the machine last week Max from your team told me!
Max is a gossip. I sometimes get coffee for anyone, it doesnt mean a thing.
Well, to me it does! she howled. You dont love me! Youre cheating! I knew it!
And off it went tears, yelling, scenes. Smashing up the kitchen again, this time the brand-new dinner set Mark had only just bought.
Mark stood in the doorway as she kept smashing plates, one after another bang, shards flying, over and over. Her eyes were fierce, breath ragged, until nearly every plate in the drainer was broken.
Emily, thats enough, he said, drained. Its gone midnight, people are sleeping.
I dont care! she screamed, grabbing the last plate. But her hands were so slippery from tears that it fell and merely clattered whole to the floor. For a second, a look of confusion overtook her face genuine confusion, not rage.
Mark silently turned away and went to the bedroom. He climbed on a chair and pulled down an old suitcase, then started throwing in clothes jeans, jumpers, phone charger, laptop.
Emily appeared in the doorway, clutching the frame, ghostly pale with mascara streaks on her cheeks.
What are you doing? she whispered.
Packing.
Where are you going?
To Mums. Ill stay there for a bit.
For how long?
For as long as youre still here. Im not coming back otherwise.
She gave a sickly sob, tried to hug him from behind, but he shrugged her off not sharply, just firmly.
Dont.
Mark, please Im sorry, she pleaded, darting in front to look into his eyes. I wont do it again. I promise. Im just stressed. Please dont go.
He stopped, looked at her that blotchy face, those trembling lips, those grabbing hands. How many times had he seen this scene? A hundred? A thousand?
Emily, he said, very calmly, you cant help it. You cant change you were raised this way. Its not your fault, but its not mine either. Im done.
I CAN change! she wailed, You just never give me a chance!
I gave you six years worth of chances, he said, zipping up the case. Im empty, Em. Theres nothing left.
What about love? she whispered. You said you loved me.
I did. He nodded. For real. But now? I dont know. I think its gone. Smashed by dishes, tantrums and tears every night, you chipped a bit of it away.
He picked up his suitcase, heading out. Emily ran after, threw herself at the door so he couldnt open it.
Youre not going! Where are you planning to stay, then?
Heres the thing: the flats mine. I bought it five years before you. So, as long as youre here, I wont be.
She recoiled like shed been hit, wide-eyed and hollow. He stepped past her, onto the landing, pressing the lift button.
Mark! she called after him as the lift doors opened. Mark, come back! I cant live without you! Ill die!
He stepped in. Behind him, the doors shut.
If you really feel that bad, call Mum or a doctor shell get you some new crockery too.
The lift shut. He went out, got in his car and just drove around the rain-soaked city. Didnt fancy his mums place shed want to chat, comfort, give advice. He just kept circling, watching the empty, yellow-lit streets until his phone buzzed nonstop Emily, calling, texting, threats and accusations. Finally: Youre going to regret this. Youll pay for this.
He smiled grimly, turned the phone off.
He woke in the car next morning, neck stiff, back aching. Nipped into a greasy spoon for three strong coffees and a bacon sarnie, and the weight finally started to lift.
A month later they were officially divorced quick, clean, no kids. Emily cried in court, insisted she still loved him, but the judge was done.
Sometimes Mark would dream of her velvet dressing gown, tear-streaked cheeks, arms reaching out whispering, Mark, please, Ill be better Hed wake up sweating, staring up at the ceiling, heart thudding.
But it always passed.
A year later, he met Hannah. She worked in an adjacent office, wore wire-frame glasses, smiled softly, drank black coffee, never once raised her voice. When Hannah got angry she just went quiet, walked into another room, and after a bit, calmly suggested, Lets talk this over, yeah?
At first, Mark was nervous. Sudden noises, a sharp word, made him tense up expecting the old routine. But Hannah was completely different. No drama, no playing sick, no tantrum if she didnt get her way.
They married quietly two years later, just the parents at the registry office, no fuss. On the wedding day, Emily sent him a text: I hope you rot, you bastard. He just chuckled and blocked her number.
Occasionally, walking through John Lewis, hed pause in the crockery aisle, looking at all the plates and cups floral, white, decorated. Hed think, blimey, how much did all those tantrum-smashings cost me over the years?
Hannah would come up, lace her arm through his, and ask gently, What are you daydreaming about? Come on, we still need to pick up the milk.
Hed smile, turn away from the displays, and follow her home.
