“Man or What?”
“Those neighbours upstairs are at it again—how bloody annoying! It’s three in the morning!” Emily shoved her peacefully sleeping husband, James. “Can you hear them shouting? Go and sort it out!”
“Em, I was sound asleep—I’ve got a haul tomorrow,” James mumbled, half-conscious. “They’ll quiet down soon. Just go back to sleep.”
Just as he settled back into the warmth of the duvet, Emily jammed an elbow into his ribs.
“Are you a man or what?” she hissed. “Go and deal with them! I’ve got the girls coming over tomorrow, and bloody Sophie will be there, bragging about her lip fillers and nose job again. And me? I’ll turn up looking like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backward! Sophie’s pushing thirty, and not a wrinkle in sight!”
“Well, her husband’s a plastic surgeon, not a lorry driver, love,” James sighed, trying to calm her. “Besides, you’re gorgeous as you are. And you’re always at the salon—practically live there!”
Emily only grew angrier. She sat upright and glared at him.
“You taking the mick? A couple of trips to the beautician a week is hardly luxury! I want lips like hers—and a new nose! And what about that bloody mink coat you promised? When’s that happening?”
“I just cleared the mortgage on the flat *you* bought before we married, and there’s still the car loan to pay off. We agreed—car first, then the coat. What’s got into you?”
“You bought your mum a down jacket!” Emily snapped.
“Because she spent all her savings on medication—her pension barely covers bills! That jacket wasn’t even expensive!”
James reached to pull her close, but she was seething.
“You can’t buy me a coat, can’t pay for my surgery—fine! At least make sure I get some sleep! Go and shut those little brats up!”
James knew there’d be no rest until he did as she asked. Guilt gnawing at him, he pulled on a tracksuit.
…Five years ago, none of his mates would’ve believed he’d marry Emily, the stuck-up girl from school who’d ignored him for years. Even after he’d landed a decent job, she’d barely glanced at him at the reunion, too busy boasting about marrying some rich bloke. He swallowed the hurt—never let it show.
Then, out of nowhere, she’d called. Asked to meet. Of course, he’d been over the moon.
“Looking good—why didn’t I notice before? Fancy a bite?”
She’d already ordered coffees and cakes. His heart warmed—maybe, just maybe.
That dinner led to breakfast at her place. Two days later, she’d dumped her rich boyfriend for him.
“Something’s off,” James’s mum, Margaret, had warned. “You chased her for years, and she treated you like dirt. Never noticed sweet Charlotte from next door, did you? Proper girl, that one—kind, hardworking.”
“Mum, the heart wants what it wants.”
“Fine. But mark my words—Emily’ll show her true colours. Don’t come crying then.”
Margaret had seen it coming. Two months after the wedding, Emily announced she was pregnant. But the dates didn’t add up—James realised when he peeked at her records.
“You were already pregnant when we first met!” he roared, fists clenched.
“I didn’t know then!” she lied. “I was scared to tell you.”
“So your posh ex ditched you, and you needed some mug to raise his kid! Mum was right!”
“Oh, your mum always looks at me like I owe her a fortune!”
“She sees you for what you are! And leave her out of it!”
Shame burned through him—he felt like a fool. Emily trembled, terrified of being dumped. She couldn’t bear the thought of her smug married friends laughing at her. So, she acted.
“Owww! It hurts!”
She clutched her stomach, screaming. James panicked, anger forgotten.
“What’s wrong? Where does it hurt?”
“My stomach! *You* did this!” She writhed, selling the act.
James rushed her to hospital. He lingered outside for hours until security shooed him away.
Meanwhile, Emily paid privately to end the pregnancy.
“I lost the baby,” she told James later, wiping crocodile tears.
“Forgive me, Em,” he whispered, clasping a gold bracelet around her wrist. “Let’s start fresh.”
She admired the gift, then set the hook. “Once I’m discharged, we *need* to talk about a car. Can’t be waiting for taxis when I’m carrying *your* child.”
James smiled—the thought of a baby warmed him.
“Fine. You’ll get your car.”
He quit his job, took up long-haul trucking, and worked extra shifts to fund her whims. Now, sleep-deprived, he trudged upstairs.
“Lads, turn the music down—we haven’t slept in days,” he said to the rowdy teens smoking on the landing.
“Or what, grandad?” the ringleader sneered. “Piss off.”
“Show some respect. Where are your parents?”
“On holiday—none of your business. *Leave.*”
“Turn it off, or I’ll call the police.”
One lad lunged, kicking James in the gut. He doubled over, gasping. When no retaliation came, the boy struck again. James staggered back, not wanting a fight—but they dragged him inside, across the flat, and shoved him off the balcony.
“Fly, grandad,” were the last words he heard before hitting the flowerbed below.
The music stopped. Emily, blissfully smiling, fell asleep. She didn’t work—why *not* sleep in? Someone pounded the door, but she ignored it.
“James, get that—might be important,” she muttered, rolling over.
The next day, as she left the flat, the old ladies outside glared.
“Cold-hearted, that one. Her husband’s in hospital, and she couldn’t care less!”
Emily scoffed, calling them “daft old bats,” and met her fellow unemployed, kept-women friends.
“You didn’t answer your phone!” Sophie huffed.
“Oh, put it on aeroplane mode and forgot!” Emily giggled.
James didn’t cross her mind—he always made breakfast quietly before work.
Then she saw ten missed calls from Margaret.
*What does* she *want?* Emily thought irritably. *I’ll call back later.*
Three hours of gossip later, she finally returned the call.
“Margaret? You rang? What’s wrong?”
“James is in ICU,” came the toneless reply.
“What—a crash?”
“No. Your neighbours beat him. Where *were* you? Doctors say he might never walk again!”
Emily hung up, pulse racing. She *felt* Margaret’s fury. “*There goes my coat,*” she thought bitterly. “*And the car loan’s not even paid. Now a crippled husband? Brilliant.*”
She visited James three days later—no point while he was in a coma. He woke, smiling weakly, which only upset Margaret, who bit her tongue for his sake.
“Will you come again?” he asked hopefully.
“Tomorrow,” Emily lied, avoiding Margaret’s glare as she rushed out.
She never returned.
James slowly recovered—his legs useless, until surgery, funded by colleagues and old schoolmates, gave him a fighting chance.
“Come on, push through the pain,” urged Charlotte, the girl who’d loved him for years.
He did, step by agonising step. Charlotte, a physio at the rehab centre, stayed by his side the entire time.
“Thank you, love,” Margaret wept. “I owe you everything.”
“Don’t be silly,” Charlotte smiled. “It’s my job.”
The divorce papers arrived mid-therapy. Emily’s scrawled note read:
*”Sorry, but I can’t live with a cripple. Found someone else—I think I love him. Sold the flat. Don’t contact me. Sign the papers.”*
Oddly, James felt nothing—no anger, no hurt. Just emptiness, ready to be filled by something real. He signed silently.
“Any message for Emily?” her lawyer asked.
James glanced at Charlotte.
“Tell her not to worry. I’ll heal before the wedding. Man or what?”
