Page 56 of Mad About You

My job was my only time out of the atmosphere, the only part of my life that existed independently of his influence. Scott said I was throwing my talent away. He constantly needled me about quitting, under the guise of being the guy on my side, my cheerleader who wanted me to realise my potential, until it became a symbol of my lethargy and hypocrisy that I’d not comply. I see now that I was supposed to stop working precisely because it floated free of his control. Had I done it, it would also be more proof of my failure and dysfunction. He wanted me to fall apart, become isolated. He would be my carer and rescuer to the outside world, while turning the screws even tighter.

One day, my friend Lorna confronted me. She didn’t give me time to scheme my way out of it – she was ‘in the area’ and did I fancy a coffee. I asked Scott to come, he was playingGrand Theft Auto.

I need her attitude like I need a hole in the head.

Lorna and I sat, tense, talking over lattes like a couple of colleagues on a training weekend.

She blurted: ‘What’s going on at home, are you alright? Is he mistreating you?’

I reacted with stung indignance. ‘WHAT? What do you mean? Of course not! Why would you say that?’

Lorna described my agitated, downcast demeanour and my striking weight loss, and above all, how hard it was to see me without Scott present. That I seemed to spend all my time with his friends and ‘doing what he wants.’

‘He’s always with you, not like he’s accompanying you, but shadowing you, watching over you.’

I retorted that I liked my lifestyle, actually, and she shouldn’t be so ‘clingy.’ I actually called her clingy. Then I stormed out of the café so fast that, given she couldn’t do a runner on the bill, she couldn’t follow.

When I got in, she had sent me a text. I stood in the hallway, opened it, and stared at it with dread.

Harriet, look. Firstly you need to know I love you …

Scott saw me, and sensing something was up, grabbed the phone from me. He frowned momentarily at the screen, then swiped and deleted the message, unread.

There, fixed it for you, deleted and blocked her. I told you she was poison, right from the off. You shoulda listened. But you’re always right, huh? We always have to do it the hard way.

So, how it ended. I wish I could say I had a self-generated epiphany. Instead, it was the most trivial thing. It haunts me where I’d be now, had it not happened. Maybe that’s not uncommon. Maybe when you’ve reached your limit, you don’t know it – you need something to spring the padlock open, like the last correct number aligning on the combination.

It was Saturday morning and we’d gone to B&Q to buy some replacement bulbs for a lamp. I’d knocked it over the night before, when I’d got in at the decadent hour of 10.30pm from seeing a film that Scott wasn’t bothered about. I’d gone with the girlfriend of one of his closest mates, thinking that was ‘safe’, and she’d insisted on a couple of drinks after. I’d texted to tell him and got no response, which was a clear warning I’d pay for it. To this day, if someone forgets to reply to a message, I get that icy feeling in my gut, thinking they’re furious with me.

In B&Q, we were browsing those broad, open shelves which have other customers on the opposite side of them.

We couldn’t find the right kind of bulb. I felt a familiar panicky sweat rise on my skin. Why couldn’t the bulb be there, why did it have to let me down? My shoulders tensed as I waited for the diatribe.

Well, there we are, lamp’s knackered. Fucking hell, Harriet, you are so fucking selfish, why don’t you ever think of anyone else before you go and get pissed?

I muttered I was sorry. I knew better than to make my punishment worse by pointing out I wasn’t wasted, that – God forbid – he was also to blame for turning off the other lights, that it was a £6 lightbulb we could order online instead. Facts never had anything to do with Scott’s feelings.

Yeah, sorry’s no good to me, is it. If you genuinely cared, you’d stop doing stuff like this.

‘I do care.’

You always say you do, and your actions prove different.

He didn’t realise there was a young woman, maybe twenty-one or so, on the other side of the shelf, who’d heard every word as clearly as if she’d been the intended audience.

She stiffened as if she’d had a small electric shock and stared at him in amazement, her hand frozen on whatever she’d been reaching for. The venomous aggression. Over a lamp. Over anything.

Then her eyes met mine. I saw in them a mixture of incredulity and pity that I will remember for as long as I live.

She hurried away, before we polluted any more of her pleasant weekend, before she had to think about the strange, depressing couples you encounter in B&Q of a morning. If Scott had noticed her, it didn’t show.

Right there in the Lighting & Lighting Accessories aisle, I saw myself. Soon turning thirty, in a relationship with someone who spoke to me in a way that alarmed and repulsed a younger woman. For once, I saw a reaction to his behaviour from someone that Scott couldn’t demonise or dismiss, a casual observer with no stake in our lives. It woke me up like a syringe of adrenaline to an unresponsive heart.

As we left the store, walking into the fresh air, I turned to Scott: ‘This is over. I don’t want to carry on. If you can move out today, I’ll pay this month’s rent.’

Scott took a moment to take this in, then nodded.Yeah. Your attitude has said as much for long enough. Good you can finally admit it.

The incredible thing is – when the switch had flicked, when I wouldn’t take another minute of it – it was so simple. I knew it, but amazingly, he knew it too. Once I revoked my permission to be treated that way, what did he have left? He was an emotional terrorist but not violent, there weren’t going to be threats to my safety.

---