You dont love me!
Friday night crept in, calm and unsuspecting, over the suburban sprawl of Birmingham. Across rows of brick semis and concrete tower blocks, living room lamps flickered to life, giving the world a warm, drowsy glow. Jonathan, a man in his early thirties, let himself into his twelfth-floor flat, juggling bags from Sainsburys: blue cheese, salami, cherry tomatoes, a bottle of French red, and a box of chocolate éclairsCharlottes favourite since university.
The hallway was eerily quiet. Usually, Charlotte bounded over, arms flung around his neck, bombarding him with questions about every moment hed spent out of her orbit. But tonightnothing. No pounding pop music from the spare room, no clumsy thuds of her rabbit-eared slippers across the laminate.
Char, Im home, he called out, unlacing his shoes.
Silence.
He set the groceries on the living room table and headed for the bedroom. The sight stopped him cold. Charlotte lay sprawled across the enormous bed, face buried in a pillow. Her shoulders quivered; her wild brunette hair tangled all across the duvet.
Whats wrong? he ventured, stepping closer. Are you alright?
She flipped onto her back with a jolt. Her eyes, puffy, mascara stained in jagged streaks down her cheeks, flashed at himanguish, betrayal, accusation.
Dont you even know? Her voice trembled, caught between a sob and a hiss. Im not alright, Jon. Im really not. I cant take this anymore I dont even want to live like this.
He perched quietly on the edge of the mattress, reaching out instinctively to feel her forehead. She recoiled as though he were contagious.
Are you ill? Have you got a temperature? he asked, trying to sound gentle, though behind it all, the fatigue of six years marriage simmered into something acid.
My soul hurts! she wailed, burying her face back in the pillow and sobbing harder. And you dont even ask how I am! You just stroll in with your shopping, dont even hug me, dont even kiss me! Im in agony here from loneliness, and youre off wasting time in Tesco!
Charlotte, I went so youd have food for dinner. Those éclairsthe ones you like? I went to the one near the station because they always have them fresh, he said, patience stretched thin as tracing paper, voice gentle as if calming a stubborn child.
Éclairs! she spat the word, sitting upright, tossing her tangled hair back, her eyes wounded but triumphant as though shed caught him out. You think you can bribe me with sweets? I dont want treats, Jon, I want your attention! I want to be seen, for you to notice me. But you act like I dont exist!
He clenched his jaw; he knew this script by heart. The pause, the implied demand for him to crawl over and beg forgivenessfor whatever unspoken sin hed committedkiss her hands, haul her up and carry her all the way to the kitchen for the prized éclairs.
But tonight his patience was threadbaretoo much left behind at work. His manager had been in a foul mood, clients missed deadlines. Jons tank was empty. No reserves tonight.
Charlotte, can we please just eat like civil people? He stood, voice flat. Ive had a long week. Lets just sit down in the kitchen, uncork the wine, have some dinner, talk like adults. Yeah?
Like adults?! Her voice went shrill, almost cracking. She leapt from the bed, fists thumping his chest in a wild, childlike rage. Youre tired? You? You think Ive been out at the spa all day? I did the cleaning top-to-bottom while you were out coffee-ing with your office girls! My backs killing me, Im hanging by a thread! And you dont even offer me a cup of tea, dont ask about my day, nothing! You selfish, cold-hearted git! Its all about you!
He caught her wrists, fragile, birdlike, so easily contained in his hands. Shed always been small, almost breakablewhen they first met, her vulnerability drew him in, made him want to shield her from the world. What a weapon it turned out to be.
Let goyou’re hurting me! she shrieked, yanking free.
He dropped her hands. She staggered back to the window, turned her back, glared through tears at the golden haze of Birmingham night. Her shoulders trembled.
Jonathan took a long, rattling breath. He walked to the kitchen, uncorked the wine, poured himself a brimming glass and drained it in one miserable swallow. Then another. Eventually he drifted back to the bedroom.
Charlotte, lets justhave a glass, he said softly, holding out the wine. A peace offering.
She spun around, face dry now, eyes sharp, emerald and steel.
Put it away. Each word was bitten out. Dont try to buy off your guilt with wine. You dont love me. You never did. Youre still married to me out of pity.
He stared, weariness collapsing onto him. Wheres this coming from? he asked, turning to set the wine on the dresser.
Oh, dont pretend! I know how you look at melike Im nothing! You used to run home, bring me flowers, now its just work this, work that. So, am I just the furniture?
He kept silent. Anything said now would be twisted, thrown back at him. This wasnt a conversation. It was a hunt. He was quarry and she was the predator, toying with her meal before the kill.
Im having dinner, he muttered, heading for the kitchen. Join me, if you want.
He could feel her stare boring into his back all the way down the hall. He sliced the cheese, arranged bread and tomatoes, refilled his glass. He tried not to think at all about what came next.
It arrived soon enough.
Charlotte barrelled into the kitchen, swept the cheese plate off the table, smashing it to the tiled floor with a shriek. Shards glinted everywhere; cheese smeared across the floor.
What are you doing?! Jonathan shouted, leaping up. Are you mad?
Thats what you get! Her cheeks burned, eyes wild. Maybe now youll see what ignoring me leads to! Maybe now youll know how it feels to be invisible!
She seized the wine, brandishing it, but he grabbed her arm just as the wine sloshed onto the tile, running through cheese and porcelain splinters.
Let go! she screeched, twisting, You bastard!
Enough! His teeth bared, holding her arm firm enough for a yelp. Stop it. Stop.
Let go!
He did. Charlotte slipped, steadied herself against the sill. Jonathan gazed at the carnage, anger and exhaustion mixing in his gut.
Look what youve done, he said quietly, sweeping the gesture around the kitchen.
Oh, what Ive done? Her rage returned in full. You drove me to this! If you were a decent husband none of this would happen!
He fetched the dustpan and broom, sweeping glass into neat piles. Charlotte yanked the broom away, hurled it into the sink. Dont you dare! Let everyone see what you do to me!
Who, Charlotte? he asked, voice beaten. Who cares?
The neighbours! Let everyone know Im married to a monster!
Theyve all heard it, he snorted, bitter. Pretty sure they know its smash-the-crockery time every evening at ours.
It was true. Six years, the student couple next door could probably score their meltdowns like a West End musical. Jonathan suspected they paused their own arguments just to listen in.
Oh, you think this is funny?! Charlotte howled. Youre laughing at me?
Im not laughing, Char. Im exhausted.
He abandoned the mess and collapsed in the armchair, closing his eyes against the thudding in his head. He remembered meeting Charlotte at a friends birthdayshe had sparkled, all wit and gleaming eyes, a burst of champagne in human form. An only child, coddled since birth by her parents: Mum, retired teacher, Dad, owner of a chain of successful garages. Theyd given her everything, so long as she smiled.
Shed always flared up: a sulk for five minutes waiting, a row in a café if her order was wrong. Love had made him excuse itblame it on youth, sensitivity, her quirky and fragile heart. Hed thought shed mature. Hed been dreadfully wrong.
After the wedding it all got worse. Her parents faded into the background, and every demand, tantrum, and expectation she had flung at him, alone. She needed a mind-reader, a parent, a clown, a butler, every day.
She expected endless affection, baby talk, coffee in bed with kisses, evenings petting her hair while listening to gripes about how exhausting it was scrolling Instagram and trying face masks. Gifts were required like vitamins. Miss a yoghurt run and all hell broke loose.
You dont love me! shed shrieked. You dont even care about my happiness!
If he protested, trying to explain the load he carried at work and home, shed burst into tearsloud, theatrical, always for maximum effect. Unlike most men, her tears mushroomed irritation in him. He knew: her tears werent pain, they were leverage, blackmail.
When tears lost their bite, she claimed ailments.
Jon, I feel dreadful, shed moan, flopping onto the bed, My heart, my head, Im sure my blood pressures crashing.
Hed hover, checking her pulse, offering to call an ambulance, but she required only one remedy: him, hovering, comforting, checking in every five minutes: Better, sweetheart? Anything I can do?
If he stepped away for even minutes, shed break downaccusations, drama, and, ultimately, yet more smashed dishes. Always the sound of glass breakingher strange catharsis. Smash first, then help clear up, as if nothing had happened.
Why do you break dishes? hed finally asked, defeated.
What else can I do? You ignore me, I have to get through somehow. Smashing plates is cheaper than therapy.
Cheaper? He eyed the kitchen, the third set of crockery this year. Do the maths on how much weve spent.
Dont wind me up and theres no problem, she snapped back.
Jonathan wanted a grown-up marriage. A smile after work, quiet evenings together, companionship. Not endless lectures on his failings or sex as a reward for good behaviour. He wanted a wife, not a petulant five-year-old.
How do you make someone grow up, especially if they dont see anything wrong? Charlotte had been raised to believe the world ought to kneel at her feet if she sobbed hard enough or shattered enough plates. And, for years, it had.
That Sunday morning, Jonathan listened to the drizzle against the windows and made his decision. When she emerged, red-eyed, clutching a mug, he met her at the kitchen table.
Charlotte, we need to talk, he said.
About what? She stared over his shoulder at the wall.
About us. I cant do this anymore.
You cant? Instantly, her temper kindled. What about me? I cant live like thisfeeling like I dont matter!
Listen to yourself. Dont you think youre acting like a child?
Oh, so now Im a child to you? Her voice rose. Who keeps this flat clean? Who looks after you?
Jonathan let out a humourless laugh. Our cleaner comes twice a week. And after six years, youve made breakfast less than a dozen times. You look out for yourself, not me.
Her cup clattered over, coffee spilling in brown rivers. You ungrateful sod! I put my heart into everything for you!
Sit down, Charlotte, he said quietly. Listen. I love you. But Im utterly drained. I cant keep proving my love every minute of the day. I want a proper partnership, not to play daddy and spoilt daughter.
So Im the problem? Her lower lip jutted, tears threatening again. Im not good enough?
I didnt say that. Im saying something has to change. You need to grow up. Stop the tears, the fits. Its not healthy.
Oh, so Im faking now? She shrieked. My nerves are shatteredbecause of you!
Every time you want something, you cry or feign illness. The moment I give in, youre miraculously cured. Thats not sickness. Its manipulation.
She stared at him, stunned. Shed never heard him hold the line before; usually, he would give in to silence the shouting. Now he stood his ground.
Youre a monster! she breathed. You married me for my parents money!
Which money? He blinked. We live in my flat, bought before I even met you. Your parents give the odd Christmas present but thats it.
Thats what you think! She was pacing, voice wild. Youve used me all these years! Now you want to throw me out!
He realised the conversation was pointless. She only heard what she wanted to. In the end, everything twisted until he was always the villain.
I need some air, he murmured, getting up.
Youre leaving? She blocked the door. Were not done!
We are, Charlotte. Ive said everything I can.
Oh, are we? She seized her mothers beloved glass bonbon dish and scythed it at the floor. Shards skidded like diamonds across the linoleum.
Jonathan watched the fragments, then her. She stood, heaving, waiting for him to come running as always, to tidy up, to console, to fall for her tears. He didnt.
You finished? he asked quietly.
What?
With the smashing. If youre done, Im going.
He brushed past, grabbed his coat and shoes. She ran after him, clawing at his sleeve.
Dont you dare leave! Youre my husband!
Thats why Im leaving, he replied, carefully unhooking her fingers. Because I cant be your husband anymore.
He closed the door behind him. A heavy thud landed against the wood.
Jonathan took the lift, trudged out into the night, lost in the glow of streetlamps and russet leaves, not really caring where he went. He walked and walked, until he found a café open late, ordered coffee and victoria sponge, sat by the window while his phone vibrated with call after call. Angry texts, withering insults, begging messages, then a furious one from her mother:
What are you playing at? Charlotte is beside herself. Get home and apologise to her!
Jonathan smirked, reading. Her mother had always been the master manipulatorjust an older model. Shed taught Charlotte everything she knew. He didnt reply, just shut off his phone and finished his coffee in the gentle hum of anonymity.
He crept in late. The flat was dark and cold. The remains of the shattered dish still sparkled on the kitchen floor. Charlotte was in bed, back turned, feigning sleep. He didnt disturb her. He swept up the mess, wiped the floor, and settled on the sofa, staring at the ceiling for hours.
In the morning, Charlotte came out, puffy, spent, sat beside him on the settee and laid her head on his shoulder.
Jonny, Im sorry, she whispered. I was awful. I dont know what got into me. I was terrified youd gone for good.
He said nothing.
I love you, she whispered. Ill change, I promise. Please just dont go.
Jonathan looked at the woman hed lovedsmall, sad, run ragged by her own storms. His heart quivered again. Of course it did.
Charlotte I honestly dont know. Youve promised before. A week later, its the same.
No, this times different! she breathed, hope blazing in her eyes. Ive booked a therapist! LookIve already done it.
She thrust her phone at him as if it were proof enough. He sighed.
Alright, Jonathan said. Try. But this is the last time.
She clung to him, showered him with desperate kisses and wild promises. And of course, he let himself believeif only because the truth was too unbearable.
Two weeks crawled by. Charlotte went to therapytwice, even showed him some scrawled notes on the back of a till receipt. Home was calmer. When she felt the rage rising, shed go into another room to breathe as her therapist had taught. Jonathan hoped, tentatively.
Then it happened again, as it always did. He stayed late at workonly an hour, hed phoned. She said she understood. But when he finally walked in, rage awaited him in the hallway.
Where HAVE you been? she shrieked.
I told you, I had a meeting. There was a jam.
You said half an hour. Its an hour. Thirty minutes you lied about. Were you with her?
With who?
That Tracy in accounts! Dont pretendI know!
Charlotte, get a grip. Tracys in another building, for Gods sake.
You bought her coffee last week! Ben told me!
Bens a gossip. I sometimes buy coffee for everyone. Doesnt mean anything.
Well, it means something to ME! she yelled. You dont love me! Youre cheating on me! I KNEW IT!
And on, and ontears, accusations, glassware sacrificed for her drama. Brand new plates exploded over the tiles, filling the silence with the sound hed come to dread.
Jonathan watched, dead tired, as she pelted one plate after another. On the last, her hands slipped, the plate dropped and clattereda lonely echo, not even breaking. Charlotte stared at it, then at him, suddenly small and lost.
He turned and walked to the bedroom, pulled out the battered suitcase from the top of the wardrobe, started stuffing in jeans and jumpers, socks, phone charger.
Charlotte hovered in the doorway, white as plaster, mascara streaked afresh.
What are you doing? she whispered.
Leaving.
To where?
My mums. Until youre gone, I wont be back.
She began to cry, tried to hug him from behind; he shrugged her off, not cruel, just finally resolute.
Dont.
Jonny, Im sorry, I swear. I wont ever do it again. My nervesplease, dont leave me.
He paused, looked at her: a crumpled, overgrown girl-child, a hundred times before. Charlotte, you wont change. You cant. Youre made this wayits not your fault, but its not mine either. Im finished.
I CAN change! You just wont let me!
I gave you six years, Charlotte. Six years. Now Im empty.
What about love? Her voice was a tiny squeak. You said you loved me.
I did, he nodded softly. Im not sure anymore. Maybe you shattered it. Plate by plate, tantrum by tantrum, night after night.
He zipped up the suitcase and moved for the door. Charlotte tried to block him, grabbing the frame.
Youre not going! Youre not!
I am. You want to know for how long? He rested a finger on the latch. As long as youre here. The flats mineI bought it long before we met.
She stumbled back, stunned. He stepped past her, called the lift.
Jon! she cried, voice echoing round the stairwell. Jon, come back! Ill die without you!
The lift arrived. He stepped in, looked back once. If youre really ill, ring your mum. Shell buy you new plates.
The doors closed.
Outside, he got into the car, started the engine, drove round the city all night, numb, headlights stretching ahead through empty streets and autumn leaves.
His phone went berserk with calls. Charlotte rang a dozen times, then texted: Youll regret this. I wont let it go.
He laughedshort and hardand turned his phone off.
He woke, stiff, in the car. Scarfed down a hot sandwich at an all-night café with enough bitter coffee to remind himself he was alive.
A month later, they were divorcedno children, nothing tying them together but the memory of drama and broken plates. Charlotte wept in court, vowed shed never let him go. The judge dissolved them on the spot.
She haunted his dreams for a while, always pleading, always promisinguntil, gradually, it stopped.
A year passed. Jonathan met Alice, who joined his office upstairs. She wore thin glasses, laughed shyly, drank her coffee black, never raised her voice. When Alice was cross, she simply went quiet, walked away, returned half an hour later and said, Lets talk calmly.
At first Jonathan trembled at loud noises, sudden movements, reminders of old wounds. But Alice was different. She didnt hurl plates or demand endless proofs of devotion.
They married quietly two years laterjust a handful of family at the registry office. Charlotte sent a final text: Hope you rot, you bastard. He blocked her number, shrugged, and moved on.
Even now, strolling the aisles at Waitrose, hed linger by the dinnerware, running his hands across bone china, counting up silently how many sets six years of shattered plates wouldve bought him.
Alice would slide her arm through his and murmur, Daydreaming again? Come on, we still need milk.
And hed smile, turning his back on the past, following her out into the forgiving light.
