own.
‘Yeah, great,’ I said, smiling at her for real now. ‘Thanks, Pheebs. I’ll be there.’
Unfortunately, it didn’t turn out to be quite as easy as that. ‘You’re going where?’ Charlie asked that evening when I told him about it.
I repeated what Phoebe had said. ‘The Star Bar and the Slug and Lettuce. And some club too, but I won’t go to that, I haven’t—’
I was about to say I didn’t have anything to wear, but Charlie interrupted. ‘Too right you won’t go,’ he said softly. ‘Or them other places. Full of sluts on the pull, they are. I’m not having you there, being leered at all night.’
I tried to protest but could already feel my spirits sinking. ‘No one will be leering at me, Charlie, it’s just a few birthday drinks with Phoebe—’
‘Right,’ he said, in that same soft, deadly voice. I dreaded that voice. I’d rather he shouted and punched the wall than spoke in that awful calm, quiet way. ‘That’s what you say now . But I know what you’re like. After two drinks you’ll be giggling and flirting with all the blokes. And before you know it—’
‘I won’t!’ I cried, wounded by the accusation. ‘I’m not even going to drink!’
‘And before you know it,’ he repeated, as if I hadn’t spoken, ‘you’ll be on your back and opening your legs for one of them. So no, you’re not going.’
‘Charlie, please,’ I said. ‘I—’
But he got off the sofa and pushed past me, his face tight with hatred. ‘You disgust me,’ he said, and slammed the front door behind him.
I wrenched it open and ran out into the street in my bare feet. ‘Where are you going?’ I wailed. ‘Charlie, come back!’
But he was gone, arms swinging with annoyance as he stalked away. I hesitated, wondering whether to run after him, beg him to come back, promise I wouldn’t go to Phoebe’s do. Then I saw Mrs Stanley from number 87 watching me from her front window, and I slunk back into the house instead, all courage lost.
I was shaking as I closed the door. Shaking from head to toe and trying not to cry. My first thought was, He’s left me and now I’m never going to get married.
My second thought was, God, I really need something nice to eat.
A few years ago, back when I was living with the girls, everything would have been different. If any bloke had shouted at me or made me feel shit like that, I’d have immediately turned to my friends for hugs, comfort and long conversations about Why are men such bastards? and Do you think I should phone him? , swiftly followed by Whose turn is it to go to the off-licence anyway? before the usual conclusion: Oh, let’s watch Terms of Endearment and have a good cry again. I didn’t feel I could do that now. I was still friends with Gemma, Nat and Shelley, but I didn’t see them all that much any more. Charlie wasn’t keen on them, said they were a bad influence on me and that I shouldn’t waste my time hanging around with them now that I had him. I had the feeling they weren’t that keen on him either, the way they exchanged private glances whenever I mentioned his name. I’d never been the kind to dump my mates the second I got a new boyfriend, but he always kicked up such a fuss about me going to meet them that I’d let our friendship drift.
They didn’t know him like I did, that was the thing. Okay, so he had changed somewhat from the charmer he’d been when I first started seeing him, and yes, sometimes he could be bad-tempered, but what they didn’t know was that, at home, he could still be really lovely to me. Really soppy. He’d proposed, hadn’t he? Admittedly he’d been quite pissed, but he’d still collapsed onto one knee and said, ‘Will you marry me?’ before passing out on the living room carpet.
Anyway, I loved him, no matter what they thought of him.
One night, when I’d actually made it to the pub with Shelley (Charlie was off on a stag weekend), we’d got quite tipsy together, and Shelley suddenly
‘Yeah, great,’ I said, smiling at her for real now. ‘Thanks, Pheebs. I’ll be there.’
Unfortunately, it didn’t turn out to be quite as easy as that. ‘You’re going where?’ Charlie asked that evening when I told him about it.
I repeated what Phoebe had said. ‘The Star Bar and the Slug and Lettuce. And some club too, but I won’t go to that, I haven’t—’
I was about to say I didn’t have anything to wear, but Charlie interrupted. ‘Too right you won’t go,’ he said softly. ‘Or them other places. Full of sluts on the pull, they are. I’m not having you there, being leered at all night.’
I tried to protest but could already feel my spirits sinking. ‘No one will be leering at me, Charlie, it’s just a few birthday drinks with Phoebe—’
‘Right,’ he said, in that same soft, deadly voice. I dreaded that voice. I’d rather he shouted and punched the wall than spoke in that awful calm, quiet way. ‘That’s what you say now . But I know what you’re like. After two drinks you’ll be giggling and flirting with all the blokes. And before you know it—’
‘I won’t!’ I cried, wounded by the accusation. ‘I’m not even going to drink!’
‘And before you know it,’ he repeated, as if I hadn’t spoken, ‘you’ll be on your back and opening your legs for one of them. So no, you’re not going.’
‘Charlie, please,’ I said. ‘I—’
But he got off the sofa and pushed past me, his face tight with hatred. ‘You disgust me,’ he said, and slammed the front door behind him.
I wrenched it open and ran out into the street in my bare feet. ‘Where are you going?’ I wailed. ‘Charlie, come back!’
But he was gone, arms swinging with annoyance as he stalked away. I hesitated, wondering whether to run after him, beg him to come back, promise I wouldn’t go to Phoebe’s do. Then I saw Mrs Stanley from number 87 watching me from her front window, and I slunk back into the house instead, all courage lost.
I was shaking as I closed the door. Shaking from head to toe and trying not to cry. My first thought was, He’s left me and now I’m never going to get married.
My second thought was, God, I really need something nice to eat.
A few years ago, back when I was living with the girls, everything would have been different. If any bloke had shouted at me or made me feel shit like that, I’d have immediately turned to my friends for hugs, comfort and long conversations about Why are men such bastards? and Do you think I should phone him? , swiftly followed by Whose turn is it to go to the off-licence anyway? before the usual conclusion: Oh, let’s watch Terms of Endearment and have a good cry again. I didn’t feel I could do that now. I was still friends with Gemma, Nat and Shelley, but I didn’t see them all that much any more. Charlie wasn’t keen on them, said they were a bad influence on me and that I shouldn’t waste my time hanging around with them now that I had him. I had the feeling they weren’t that keen on him either, the way they exchanged private glances whenever I mentioned his name. I’d never been the kind to dump my mates the second I got a new boyfriend, but he always kicked up such a fuss about me going to meet them that I’d let our friendship drift.
They didn’t know him like I did, that was the thing. Okay, so he had changed somewhat from the charmer he’d been when I first started seeing him, and yes, sometimes he could be bad-tempered, but what they didn’t know was that, at home, he could still be really lovely to me. Really soppy. He’d proposed, hadn’t he? Admittedly he’d been quite pissed, but he’d still collapsed onto one knee and said, ‘Will you marry me?’ before passing out on the living room carpet.
Anyway, I loved him, no matter what they thought of him.
One night, when I’d actually made it to the pub with Shelley (Charlie was off on a stag weekend), we’d got quite tipsy together, and Shelley suddenly
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