**Where Do Wives Like That Come From?**
“Emma, put that phone down for a minute, will you?” Vincent smacked his palm against the worn-out tablecloth, irritation creeping into his voice.
His wife reluctantly tore her eyes from the screen and gave him a flat stare. “What d’you want, then?”
“I just want you to stop staring at that bloody thing and talk to me for once!” Vincent said, though his conviction wavered. He wasn’t even sure he really wanted that anymore. Looking into her small eyes, sunk deep into plump, shiny cheeks, he regretted pulling her away from the phone.
***
Emma hadn’t always been like this. Vincent remembered all too well his teenage years—tall, awkward, the bookish type—pining after the pretty blonde next door. He knew he didn’t stand a chance.
“What on earth do you see in her?” his mother fumed. “She’s a bit pretty, sure, but thick as two short planks. Barely scraped through school, never went to uni—no brains for it! Now she’s mopping floors in an office block, waiting for some rich bloke to trip over her bucket and fall in love!”
“Don’t say that!” Vincent snapped, flushing red. “There’s dignity in all work! Not everyone’s cut out to be businessmen or professors. Someone’s got to clean up after snobs like you!”
“Fine, let her mop floors then—I wouldn’t care if you weren’t obsessed with her. Thank God she never noticed you! Marry a girl like that, and your life’ll go to the dogs. You’re soft, Vincent. Easily led. You’ll turn into a couch potato next to her, watching telly and scratching your belly!”
But Vincent couldn’t help himself. Emma filled his thoughts—everywhere, at home, at uni, on the Tube. She seemed like a creature from another world, magical and unattainable.
***
While Vincent daydreamed, Emma went and got married. Not to a businessman. That never quite worked out. She settled for Kev, a bloke from the estate—bit of a rough lad. Desperate to escape her parents’ flat, where drunken rows were a nightly event, Kev had his appeal. Tall, decent-looking, and—most importantly—his own place. A tiny, peeling council flat, but his. Plus, he had a job—just a warehouse labourer, but Emma was sure he’d work his way up.
Kev, of course, had no idea about her plans. Once the wedding was over and the honeymoon phase wore off, he expected Emma to pull her weight—cooking, cleaning, the lot. But Emma refused. Her culinary skills stopped at scrambled eggs. Dusting was optional, and washing up more than once a week was downright extravagant.
Kev fumed. Emma sulked but didn’t budge. So he tried force. She fought back, wriggled free, and ended up sobbing on a bench outside the block.
That’s where Vincent found her, heading home from uni.
“Emma, what’s wrong?” He sat beside her, awkwardly wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
“Kev…” she sniffled, smearing mascara onto his white T-shirt.
“Did he hurt you? Hit you?”
She nodded, wiping her nose.
“Bastard! Leave him!” Anger made Vincent bold. “Come with me now. I’ll look after you!”
Emma pulled back, squinting at him. “Who even *are* you?”
Vincent froze.
“You look familiar…” She tapped her forehead, then brightened. “Oh! You live in the next block with your mum—teacher or something, right?”
“Lecturer in English…” he muttered.
“Yeah, teacher! That’s it! You were in the year above me. I think I remember your name…” She scrunched her face in concentration. “Oh! Vincent the Nutcase! Wait—sorry…”
He glowered.
“Aw, don’t be like that! Everyone took the mick. You were always off in your own little world! Long, quiet, proper boffin!” She giggled.
“Oh, there you are! Laughing with some bloke now?” Kev stormed out, tracksuit sleeves rolled up. “Home. Now.”
Vincent stood, but Kev shoved him backward. “Sit down, mate, unless you fancy a trip to A&E.”
Vincent sat. And hated himself.
***
That time, Emma went back with Kev. They smashed plates, broke chairs, screamed the flat down—then made up before the neighbours could even dial 999.
This became their routine. Over the years, Vincent saw Emma now and then—sometimes in sunglasses on cloudy days, sometimes in long sleeves in summer.
“Alright, Vincent the Brainbox?” she’d call out, swapping insults.
He’d stare at her dark lenses, cowardly guessing what hid behind them. “Hello, Emma. Marriage treating you well?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just observant.”
“Mind your own,” she’d grumble, hurrying off.
Vincent watched her go, fists clenched. Useless. Couldn’t thump Kev, couldn’t convince Emma to leave. A complete coward.
Ironically, it was Kev who ended Vincent’s torment.
***
One night, near midnight, the doorbell rang.
“Who is it?” Vincent asked, glancing at his mother hovering in the hall.
“It’s Emma. Open up!”
He flung the door open. There she stood—dressing gown, slippers, face swollen. Vincent waved his mum away, pulled Emma inside, and sat her on his bed.
“How’d you even know where I live?” The question was pointless, but his mind was blank.
“God, you’re hopeless!” Her split lips curled. “We used to write rubbish on your door!”
She noticed him staring at her bruises.
“Don’t say anything. I’m leaving him. Taking me in?”
Vincent gaped.
She sighed. “Right. Figures. Back to Mum and Dad’s, then.”
“Wait!” He grabbed her wrist. “I—I just wasn’t expecting it. I always wanted… Just… not like this.”
Emma stayed.
***
From there, Vincent’s life spiralled. His mum raged—no way was Emma living with them. Kev kicked the door in, raging, until neighbours finally called the police. Vincent panicked and moved out, renting a grim flat with Emma in a dead-end suburb.
Soon, he dropped out of uni. Needed money. Mum helped at first—rent, dodging Kev, even sorting his army exemption. But funds ran dry. He worked—courier, stock clerk, security, even warehouse labour until his back gave out.
When Kev finally moved on, Emma filed for divorce. Quick, painless. Vincent married his battered princess.
Mum warned he’d ruined his future. Threatened to bar Emma. Then caved.
Vincent moved back.
“Vincent, re-enrol!” Mum nagged. “Dropping out in your final year—are you mad?”
“Earn more!” Emma snapped. “We’re skint! If your job pays peanuts, get another!”
He obeyed. Courier, stock clerk, security again—anything. Came home exhausted to their screaming matches.
“You ruined my son!” Mum shrieked. “Lazy, slovenly—brains of a turnip!”
“Oh, listen to Lady Muck! What’ve *you* ever done?” Emma shot back.
Vincent cooked dinner, numb.
***
Somehow, he missed when slender, pretty Emma became a loud, heavy-set woman. The first real shock came at Mum’s funeral. Emma stood by the grave, stuffed into a dark dress. Vincent realised—if she sobbed, the fabric would split.
She didn’t sob.
“Vin, stop moping. She went quick—lucky, really. Massive heart attack—just *pop*!” She clapped his shoulder. He nearly smacked her.
Didn’t.
***
After Mum died, the flat became a tip.
“Emma, you live here too! Clean up!”
“You want it done, *you* do it!” She didn’t look up from her phone. “I work too!”
“You sit in a flower kiosk all day! Barely any customers!”
Her glare was venomous. “Oh, so now I’m not working *hard* enough? Should’ve stayed a cleaner, eh?”
Vincent gave up. No energy. Just wanted peace.
***
Vincent woke up at forty. Worked in a warehouse now. Made a mate—Gary. Chatty, easygoing. One evening, Gary swung by.
The flat was a disaster. Emma, in a stained dressing gown, barely glanced up.
“Not serving you. Just got home. Raid the fridge if you want.”
Gary took one look at the sink piled with dishes.
“Right. I’ll head off. But mate—if I hadn’t seen it, I’d never believe you were married. Sort it out.”
Vincent’s eyes opened. Emma sat at the table,Vincent took a deep breath, handed her the divorce papers the next morning, and walked out for good, finally free from the dream that had turned into a nightmare.
