**Sunday, 18th June**
That rage I mistook for love still festers tonight. Nigel screamed at me hours ago, waving a soaking rag. “Who d’you think you are, ordering me about? I’m cleaning like a bloody slave while you lounge!” He didn’t even glance up from his phone. “Pardon me for living in my own flat! Should I ask permission to sit?”
“*Your* flat?” I halted mid-sweep, glaring. He finally met my eyes—cold, dismissive. “Who scrubs it? Cooks? Pays utilities from my wages because you’re perpetually skint?”
He stood abruptly. That familiar dread coiled in my stomach. “Enough, Gemma. Same nagging daily. I work too—not lazing about!”
“Work?” My bitter laugh echoed. “You were sacked six months back!”
He stepped closer, hissing, “Shut it. Shut it while I’m still pleasant.” I dropped my gaze. My hands trembled. “Better,” he said smugly, returning to his phone. My heart raced. Fear? Or something colder?
Tonight, alone after Nigel left for the pub, I sipped tea, tracing our decay. When did affection curdle into war?
I remembered our first meeting at that café near my office. Broad-shouldered, loud, commanding—he’d held the room. Daisy nudged me: “He’s eyeing you up. Let’s chat!” I flushed, denying it. Yet he *had* looked. When he approached, I froze. “Nigel,” he said, offering his hand. “And your name, gorgeous?”
*Gorgeous*. No one called me that—average Gemma Ellis, mousy hair, grey eyes. But he did. “Gemma,” I whispered. “Suits you,” he smiled. He was eight years older—a site manager. Proper. On our second date, he brought roses. “For Manchester’s finest.” I melted—no one gave me flowers unprompted.
A month later, he proposed. “Marry me, Gem. Can’t live without you. Need you like air.” *Like air*. Me—accustomed to shadows—someone’s universe? “We barely know each other…” He pulled me tight. “What’s to know? I love you. You love me.” Did I? Gratitude, perhaps. Admiration. But I said yes.
Our wedding was modest. Nigel insisted: “Why waste pounds on a venue? Save for the flat.” I agreed—just to be near him.
Early marriage wasn’t honeyed despite the name. Nigel demanded spotlessness—dinner ready, shirts pressed. “Must have order, Gem. I graft all day—deserve peace.” I rose early, rushed after work: groceries, cooking, cleaning. Bone-tired, I stayed quiet. Wives don’t complain.
He praised me then. “Proper wife! Not like modern slags obsessed with careers.” I glowed. Doing right.
But decay crept in. Nigel nitpicked: “Soup’s oversalted!” “Sorry, I’ll improve.” “Improve? I break my back on-site—inedible slop!” I’d remake meals silently. Or cleaning: after hours scrubbing, he’d find dust on a window ledge—”Pigsty living?” “I cleaned…” “Call this cleaning? Mum had this place gleaming at your age!”
His mother—Margaret—was exalted. Perfect wife, mum. “Mum said, ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness,’” he’d lecture. I studied housekeeping guides, bought new supplies. Never enough. “Hopeless,” he’d sneer. “Can’t do anything proper.” *Hopeless* cut deepest.
Then Nigel’s job soured—griping about a “tosser boss.” “Works us ragged, blames me!” I consoled: “It’ll improve.” “You’d know? Sat in your cushy office pushing paper!” I’m an accountant—hard graft, but paled beside his woes.
Six months later, sacked. He stormed in grim. “Out. Finished.” “Why?” “Redundancy—lies! Boss hated me.” I hugged him. “You’ll find work—experienced, clever.” “Where? Needs connections or youth.”
Weeks searching dwindled to nothing. “Exhausted,” he’d grumble. “Need rest.” I worked, my sole wages stretching. Took overtime, late shifts. Unappreciated. “Late again? Who’ll cook?” “Sorry—quick meal?” “Quick? Can’t a man eat decent after grafting?” *Grafting?* He’d lounged all day! I cooked silently.
He roared demands: “Tea!” “Find my socks!” “Filth everywhere!” I scrambled, obeying. Darkness swelled inside me.
But he *loved* me—had said so. Shouldn’t I endure? Be better?
Tomorrow I’ll ring Daisy, find a little flat near St. Anne’s Square, and finally breathe air untouched by his fury.