“Man Up or What?”
“Those bloody upstairs neighbours are at it again! Three in the morning!” Emily shoved her sleeping husband awake, her voice a venomous whisper, “You hear that racket? Sort them out, Oliver!”
“Em, I was dead asleep,” Oliver groaned, rubbing his face, “Got a haul to Manchester at dawn. They’ll quiet down soon—just leave it.”
Just as he tried to settle back into the pillow, Emily jabbed her elbow into his ribs.
“Man up or what?” she hissed. “Go deal with them! I’ve got brunch with the girls tomorrow. Bloody Sophie’s coming, bragging about her ‘botox’ and ‘lip fillers’ again while I look like a zombie. That cow’s pushing thirty-five without a wrinkle!”
“Her husband’s a plastic surgeon, love, not a lorry driver,” Oliver sighed, trying to soothe her. “You’re gorgeous without any of that. Besides, you practically live at the spa.”
Emily’s glare sharpened. She sat bolt upright, fists clenched in the duvet.
“You taking the mick? Two spa visits a week is nothing! I want lips like hers—and a new nose! And when exactly are you buying me that mink coat, eh?”
“Em, we just paid off your flat’s mortgage—the one you bought before we married—and there’s still your BMW on finance. We agreed: car first, then the coat. Why’re you winding yourself up?”
“You bought your mum that Canada Goose jacket!” Emily snapped.
“She’d spent all her pension on meds—it was hardly a fortune!”
Oliver reached for her, but she recoiled, simmering.
“Can’t afford a coat, can’t pay for my procedures—fine. At least make sure I get some sleep! Go shut those little chavs up!”
Defeated, Oliver dragged on his tracksuit, guilt gnawing at him.
—
Five years ago, no one would’ve believed Oliver would marry Emily—the girl who’d sneered at him all through secondary school. He’d fancied her since Year 10, but she’d only dated posh blokes with trust funds. Even after he’d landed a decent job, she’d ignored him at the reunion, bragging about marrying some banker. He’d swallowed the humiliation.
Then, out of the blue, she’d called. “You look fit now—why’d I never notice? Fancy dinner?”
Oliver, dizzy with hope, hadn’t questioned the sudden interest.
Two days later, she’d dumped the banker—for him.
“Something’s off,” his mum, Margaret, had warned. “She spent years treating you like dirt. What’s changed? That sweet Lucy from down the road still fancies you—”
“Not happening, Mum. I love Emily.”
Margaret had sighed. “Mark my words, boy. That girl’s trouble.”
She’d been right. Two months after the wedding, Emily announced she was pregnant—except the dates didn’t add up. Oliver found out when he peeked at her medical notes.
“You were already pregnant when we met!” he’d roared.
Emily’s lie came smoothly. “I didn’t know! I was scared to tell you!”
“So your rich ex dumped you, and you needed a mug to raise his kid!” Oliver had stormed. “Mum bloody warned me!”
“Your mum’s always looked at me like I owe her something!”
“Because you’re a liar!”
Emily, panicking, had clutched her stomach and screamed. “It hurts! You’ve upset me—I could lose the baby!”
Oliver, terrified, rushed her to A&E. Under the hospital’s cover, she quietly paid for an abortion—then blamed a miscarriage.
“I forgive you,” he’d whispered later, clasping a £3,000 gold bracelet around her wrist. “Fresh start?”
Emily admired it greedily. “Fine. But I need a car—can’t rely on taxis when I’m carrying *your* child.”
Oliver, desperate to believe, agreed. He quit his job and took gruelling lorry routes to fund her demands.
Now, exhausted, he trudged upstairs.
“Lads, turn it down, yeah?” he said to the teens smoking on the landing. “People are trying to sleep.”
“Piss off, grandad,” the ringleader sneered.
“Where are your parents?”
“Tenerife. Now sod off!”
Oliver pulled out his phone. “Quiet down, or I’m calling the cops.”
One lad lunged, kicking Oliver square in the gut. Gasping, Oliver doubled over—then took another blow. He stumbled back, but hands yanked him inside, dragged him through the flat, and shoved him off the balcony.
“Fly, grandad,” someone laughed.
Oliver crashed into a hydrangea bush below.
—
Upstairs, Emily smiled as the music died. Finally, sleep.
Next morning, gossiping neighbours glared as she strutted past.
“Cold-hearted witch,” one muttered. “Her husband’s in hospital, and she’s off to brunch.”
Emily scoffed. “Barmy old bats.”
At the café, Sophie pouted. “We called you ten times!”
“Sorry, girls—put my phone on silent!” Emily giggled, ignoring the missed calls from Margaret.
Three hours later, giddy from champagne, she finally checked her phone—ten missed calls.
Sighing, she dialled. “*What* is it, Margaret?”
“Oliver’s in ICU,” came the hollow reply. “Those yobs beat him half to death. Where *were* you?”
Emily hung up, heart pounding. No insurance payout, an unpaid car loan—and now a crippled husband? *Bloody brilliant.*
She visited three days later, once he’d woken.
“Come tomorrow?” Oliver rasped, hopeful.
“Sure,” Emily lied, avoiding Margaret’s glare.
She never returned.
Instead, Lucy—the girl from downstairs, now a physio—stayed by Oliver’s side through rehab.
“Push through the pain,” she urged, steadying him as he took his first steps.
“You’ve saved him,” Margaret wept. “I’ll owe you forever.”
Lucy smiled. “Just doing my job.”
—
The divorce papers arrived during therapy.
*Oliver—Can’t live with a cripple. Found someone else. Sold the flat. Don’t contact me. Sign these.*
Oddly, Oliver felt nothing. Just emptiness—ready to be filled. He signed without a word.
“Any message for your ex?” the lawyer asked. “Mrs. Thompson wishes to know if you’re… in much pain?”
Oliver glanced at Lucy, then smirked.
“Tell her not to worry. I’ll heal by the wedding.” He winked. “Man up or what?”
