The fall of the emperor

“Her mind is definitely twisted. She got the Mercedes Benz….”

His voiced drifted through the bathroom door. Another notch on the oh-my-god-this-man-annoys-me scale. His constant failure to admit a mondegreen was just another thing on the list of attributes which added to her increasing floccinaucinihilipilification of their relationship.

Julian Emperor and Sally Oliver had been together for five years and engaged for one. They had met in Pittsburgh’s East Side where he attended university. She was on her gap year and missing England terribly. She had made her way to the promisingly-named Heinz Field in the vain hope that there’d be some baked beans there. Instead, she found a large group of padded men running around in helmets. And him. Julian. Or, as his teammates knew him, Caesar.

They had spent happy years in a rundown old apartment in London. She had worked, he hadn’t (“it’s just too hard to get a job playing football here honey”). Sally didn’t mind too much – he paid his way…just not with money.

When the news of the engagement finally emerged it was all Mazel Tov! Fantastic news! and she was excited too. Weddings meant dresses and parties and champagne (not as catchy as raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens but still a few of her favourite things). She threw herself into the organisation of what was going to be the biggest party of their lives. However, as the day grew nearer, the rot had started to set in. Things which she’d never noticed before now jumped up and down in front of her, screaming.

Their fundamental differences in politics had started causing arguments – his passion for antidisestablishmentarianism grated with her view that, actually, church and state should be separate. After all, it’s not up to the state to decide how one worships, is it? Try telling that to possibly the only Republican to hail from Pennsylvania.

What, at first, had seemed like quaint sayings now rattled her – “I like my eggs dippy”. “I’m always getting hosed” “I got a jagger in my finger”. She was petrified that he’d teach their children weird phrases which would lead to ceaseless bullying. “You’re not going anywhere until you redd up your room” he’d bark. No, she couldn’t have that. It just wouldn’t do. Not in Notting Hill.

Her friends had noticed it too. “Poor old Sol” they’d say over a glass of wine ”he’s a bit of a loser, isn’t he?”  They would remind her of that time when Caesar was pants-adverse for a year, that time when he had proclaimed that France was the capital city of Italy.

She sighed as he finally emerged from the steamy bathroom. Now followed the next annoyance – his fashion show parade up and down the bedroom. Hotel California had been replaced by I’m too sexy. Sally wasn’t sure how the habit started but now, each morning without fail, he made his entrance into the bedroom with nothing but a towel round his neck. He’d flex his arms (those that used to reduce her to a quivering wreck) and point his toes. Then, the pièce de résistance – he’d make “the noise“. She admired his dirty flange - even after a shower, she could still smell that very Julian, very musky odour. Not exactly something to smack your lips about. How had she ignored these faults for so long?

“Caesar”, she began. “Caesar?” No answer. He was still waggling his (admittedly still rather pert) bum in the mirror. Focus Sally. “Julian” she barked.

He turned. Eyes wide, eyebrow raised.

“Look, it’s not…” she paused. Not what? Not me, it’s you? Not working? Not our time? Not the best idea to iron trousers when they’re still on? All of the above were true. How was she going to break this to him? Short and sharp was the way.

“It’s not working, ok? I don’t know what it is and I don’t know whether it’s always been but there it is.”

Caesar was shocked. This was a turn-up for the books. He thought he had brainwashed her a little better. He’d been using his good looks and charming Americanisms to great effect for years. He was the dumper, not to the dumpee. He’s have to salvage this somehow.

He wracked his brains for something suitable to say. He was onto a good thing here, he wasn’t going to give up his meal ticket without a fight. He thought back to what his father taught him: “Always tell a woman what she wants to hear, son.” It must have worked for him, he’d had five wives.

What was that poncy film Sol liked so much? Stupid trashy thing with that bloke who was a bit too good looking. He had a line, a line which made Sol sigh with pleasure and made him puke up into his mouth. Ah! That was it.

He opened his eyes a little wider – the puppy dog look never failed. “But Solly Olly, you can’t just give up and leave me. I’d miss you too much. To be honest, I… I think I’d miss you even if we’d never met. Sol, we were made for each other.”

He open his arms, expecting a softly weeping Sol to fly into them. But hang on a second. Was that Sol rolling her eyes? This wouldn’t do.

“You’ve been listening to your friends Sol, they hate me, they always have. What have they been saying about me? What lies have they been spreading?” he was desperate now, and she knew it.

“Your enemies are not always wrong, Julian” she said, reaching for a pre-packed bag. She didn’t look back as she walked out the door.

He stood there for a second, watching. Then he turned back to the mirror.