«How dare you tell me what to do?!» shouted Emily, brandishing a sopping dishcloth. «I’m cleaning this place like a slave while you lounge on the sofa barking orders!»
«Excuse me for living in my own flat!» David barked back equally loud, not looking up from his phone. «Maybe I should ask permission to sit down next?»
«*Your own flat*?!» Emily froze mid-step, fixing her husband with a gaze brimming with fury. «Who cleans it? Who cooks? Who pays the council tax and bills from *my* salary because yours is always short?»
David finally tore his eyes from the screen, staring at her with an expression that made Emily involuntarily step back.
«You know what, Em?» he spat. «I’m sick of hearing this. Same rubbish every day! I work too, you know? Not sat on my backside all day!»
«Work?» A bitter laugh escaped her. «It’s been six months since your last site job chucked you out, and you’re still ‘working’!»
David surged off the sofa. Emily felt a knot of fear tighten in her stomach. She knew that look. Knew what came next.
«Shut it!» he hissed, closing the gap. «Shut it, while I’m still feeling gracious!»
Emily lowered her eyes, pressing her lips tight. The dishcloth trembled in her hands.
«That’s better,» David drawled with satisfaction. «Don’t get above yourself… Think I can’t manage without you?»
He reclaimed his spot, retreating into his phone. Emily stood rooted, bewildered by her pounding heart. Fear? Or something else?
That evening, after David had gone to meet his mates, Emily sat at the kitchen table with a mug of tea, wrestling with her feelings. When had this war begun? Their first encounter played out: a London pub near her office. He’d seemed so strong, decisive back then, talking loudly and commandingly while his mates listened intently. She’d sat with her friend Claire, sneaking glances at the handsome man with dark, thick hair and piercing eyes.
«Look, he’s eyeing you up!» Claire had whispered. «Go on, introduce yourself!»
«Don’t be silly!» Emily had flushed. «He’s not looking at me…»
But he was. When he approached, Emily’s breath caught.
«David,» he’d introduced himself, extending a hand. «And your name, gorgeous?»
Gorgeous… No one had ever called her that before. Emily had always thought herself plain – average height, build, grey eyes, mousy brown hair unremarkable. And here was… gorgeous?
«Emily,» she’d whispered, cheeks burning.
«Emily… Lovely name. Suits you.» He was eight years older, which appealed. Emily had felt older men were reliable, wiser. He was a site manager, telling fascinating stories, treating her gallantly.
On their second date, he brought flowers. «For the best woman in London,» he’d said, kissing her hand.
Emily melted. No one had ever brought her flowers for no reason.
Within a month, he proposed. «Marry me, Em. I can’t live without you. I need you like air.»
Like air… Could someone truly need her? Emily, used to blending in, suddenly became the centre of someone’s universe.
«But we barely know each other…» she’d protested timidly.
«What’s to know?» David had pulled her close, arms strong to the point of pain. «I love you, you love me. Nothing else matters.»
Love… He said he loved. Did she? Emily wasn’t sure it was love; more admiration, gratitude for the attention she’d craved. But she said yes.
Their wedding was modest. David insisted on a gathering at his flat. «Why waste money on a restaurant?» he’d reasoned. «Better save it for our own place.»
Emily agreed. She didn’t care, as long as she was with him.
The first months weren’t truly ‘honeymoon’. David proved demanding. He wanted the flat spotless, dinner ready when he walked in, shirts perfectly pressed. «A man needs order, Em,» he’d explain. «I graft all day, deserve peace at home.»
Emily tried. She rose early, cooked breakfast, raced to the shops after work, then home to cook, clean, wash. Exhausted, she kept quiet. Did real wives complain?
David praised her efforts. «That’s a proper wife!» he’d say when she served dinner. «Not like those modern girls only thinking about careers.»
Emily savoured the praise. It meant she was doing it right. He was happy.
But imperceptibly, things shifted. David began nitpicking. «This shepherd’s pie is rubbish!» he’d push the plate away.
«Sorry, I’ll try harder tomorrow,» she’d appease.
«Try harder? What am I supposed to eat tonight? Been grafting on sites all day, come home to inedible muck!»
Emily would bin the food, scramble to cook something else. David ate silently, radiating disapproval.
Or cleaning. Emily could scrub all day, yet David always found dust in an obscure corner.
«What’s this?» He’d jab a finger at the skirting board. «Living in a pigsty?»
«But I cleaned…» she’d stammer.
«Cleaned? Is that what you call it? My mum had this place gleaming at your age!»
His mother… David often spoke of her in reverent tones. Margaret was the ideal housewife, wife, mother. Never tired, never complained, achieved perfection.
«Mum always said, ‘A home reflects the woman’,» David lectured. «She was right.»
Emily studied housekeeping articles, recipes, bought new cleaning products. Never enough.
«You’re hopeless,» David started saying. «Can’t do a bloody thing properly.» ‘Hopeless’ cut deeply. Emily began doubting herself. Was he right? Was she incompetent?
Then David’s work troubles began. First, complaints about an unfair boss. «Old goat has it in for me!» he’d rant over dinner. «I graft better than the lot, he picks on me!»
Emily sympathised. «Don’t fret, love. It’ll sort itself.»
«How would *you* know?» he’d snap. «Never worked a hard day! Sat shuffling papers in your cosy office!»
Emily worked as an accountant. Hard, but trivial compared to David’s woes.
Six months later, he was sacked. David came home like thunder. «That’s it, Em. Got the boot.»
«Sacked? For what?»
«Who knows! Said redundancies. Lies! Boss just hated me.»
Emily hugged him. «Never mind, you’ll find another job. You’re clever, experienced.»
«Where?» David sighed heavily. «Need connections everywhere, or they take youngsters.»
Job hunting dwindled. Soon David spent days lounging, watching telly. «Need a break from that rat race,» he’d say. Emily worked alone; her wage barely covered them. She requested a raise, worked late, brought tasks home. David didn’t value it. «Late again?» he’d gripe when she arrived weary. «Who’s cooking dinner?»
«Sorry, love. I’ll whip something up.»
«Whip something up? Can’t a man get a proper meal after a hard day?»
Hard day? David lazed on the sofa! Emily held her tongue. She cooked, cleaned, washed. He commanded. «Emily! Fetch tea!» «Emily! Where are my socks?» «Emily! This place is a tip again!»
She scurried, obeying. Inside, something dark and heavy swelled.
But he loved her! Said he couldn’t live without her! So she must endure, must improve.
David found another site job a year later. Less pay, but he boasted. «See? Worth waiting! Good place, promising.» Emily rejoiced. Maybe things would improve?
Three months later, he got sacked again. For skiving.
«What do they know about work?!» David yelled. «One late mark, and they sack you!»
Emily knew he
David’s subsequent indolence and relentless demands finally crushed her spirit until the night she packed her essentials, walked out into the drizzling London streets without a backward glance, and tasted true freedom.