A year into our marriage and I'm still working at the bar in Manchester with late nights, scary bus rides home, and a never ending battle to pay the bills and rent.

Jack's slowly sunk into a routine of work, tv, and drinks with the boys. As far as work goes, as long as the paychecks come in regularly, he says he can put up with it. He claims that he just sticks his headphones on and lets the music take him away.
As for us - it's not easy to keep a relationship going when you're passing each other like ships in the night and virtually living separate lives.

This particular Saturday afternoon, I'm upstairs in the bathroom, getting ready for the usual rush to the bus stop to catch the 17.10 to city centre, so that I'll be in time for the 6.00pm till midnight shift.

It's raining and Jack's got a soccer match on the radio while he's soaking in the bath. Steam is choking up the small window on the wall behind the bathtub. Trickles of rain are skidding down the other side of the glass as if trying to tease the inner lines of condensation.

Leaning one hand on the sink - away from Jack's sauna, I wipe the mist from the large, round mirror, pulling strange faces as I apply mascara and lipstick.

"Ah, come on, City!" Jack slaps the water in delusion over the match's progress. Bubbles shoot up and over the side of the tub, splash landing on the thick red bathmat. "Pull your finger out. Pezzi di merda."

Ever since his Italian serenade at our wedding party, Jack has begun to express himself in his native tongue for certain situations. Usually with swear words and usually at football.

"Will you be stopping in at the bar tonight?" I ask his reflection in the mirror.

Jack passes a wet hand over his face to clear the beads of sweat gathered there during his scorching hot bath. I can never understand how he copes with such hot water, anytime we share it I end up looking like a boiled lobster.

"Don't think so, Gorgeous. Kenny says there's a great new rock club opened up the other side of town. So I guess we're going to check that out."

"Ah, okay. So do you think you'll be back before two o'clock in the morning this time?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jack's staring at me through the mirror now.

"Nothing, just that it'd be nice not to get woken up by you banging and crashing around at that God-forsaken hour."

He snorts and turns up the volume on the radio. The commentator is getting excited about something, which is winding up Jack's expectations as well. "Yes, yes, go on... go on!"

I put my make-up away and start the harder job on my hair, it never does what I want it to, and the humidity of the steamy room is not helping. I watch for his reaction to my next course of enquiry. My fingers gripping my brush tighter than necessary.
"Can we have a night out on Monday do you think? It's been ages since we went to the cinema."

And ages since we've been alone for an evening together too.

That's what I really want to say.

"If you like." He starts to pick at his toe nails. Then looking over at me, and probably assessing the shape of my behind, he suddenly grins and begins clearing the bubbles away from his floating private parts in the water. "Hey, got something for you here, Gorgeous."

"Give over, I haven't got time for that." I smirk, going over to splash my hand across the surface of the bath, drenching his face. It's not a completely unwelcome offer, but duty calls and I know if I show the slightest bit of interest then I will definitely miss that bus. Besides, he won't be disappointed with what I intend to offer him once I get home.

As I leave the room giggling at his splutters, I hear him snort and pull the plug.

********
Monday night and we're not at the cinema. Instead I'm watching a soppy romantic movie on the tv, with a takeaway curry and a big glass of wine - alone. Exactly as I suspected the evening 'together' would actually end up, as it had several times before.

The neighbours to the left of me are having some kind of party, bass beats with muffled laughter and voices soak through the walls. I turn the volume on the tv louder and reach for the box of tissues for the third time this evening. The soppy romance enhances my need to feel a part of something romantic, at least for a while.

The film takes a break and the news comes on. Time for a trip to the toilet.

While I'm up there, I hear an almighty crash from downstairs. It can only be Jack returning from the pub. From the sound of things he's almost smashing his way through the front door, drunk again no doubt. I sigh and take as long as I can to stoke up the energy to face this again. I suppose I should count my blessings that Jack's not one of those guys who turns into some kind of vicious monster after a drink. He becomes this puppy dog for a while before eventually passing out. That's been the usual pattern of things.

As I come down and stand at the bottom of the staircase, I take a moment to diagnose which part of his drunken progression I'm going to have to deal with.

He's leaning, supported upright by the left wall of the living room. His head is turned towards me as he presses his ear to the lilac papered wall. He sees me but offers no reaction, cupping his hand around his ear as if this will somehow allow him to hear the neighbours better.

Okay, so this is still in stage one by the looks of things. "What are you doing?" I ask.

Jack says nothing and blinks vacantly back at me.

"Come and sit down. They'll pack it in soon enough." I go and resume my place on the sofa as the film starts up again.

"What's that shit?" Jack's tone is low and flat. I hardly recognise his voice.

"It's not bad really. I've been wanting to see it for ages. You remember the one about the baby being left on the doorstep?"

As I prattle on, describing the plot, trying to involve him in the storyline, the noise from the neighbours is rapidly becoming louder. They've opened up the front door to allow the house party to spill out its content of people, music and barking dogs into the low walled front garden.

The owner of the property next-door is a decent bloke really. Anytime we've come across him while we're leaving or entering the house, he's always stopped to say hi and smile. Once about a month ago, the bald, middle aged man had thoughtfully brought round a letter for us which had been delivered to his door by mistake. The occasional loud tv and stereo didn't bother us enough to disturb the status quo by complaining. Life was too short for all that.

A warmth of growing dread is breeding its way through my belly. Something like the electric static you can pick up from the approach of a serious storm. The hairs on the back of my neck are raising. I can sense the weight of the air.

Startling me, Jack jumps over to the front window, bashing and clattering the objects on the coffee table in his haste. He tears back the new cream curtains I've only just put up, and glares out at the neighbours.

"Fucking idiots!" He slurs.

His behaviour is beginning to scare me.
"What's wrong with you tonight? Why are you acting like Mr Hyde when I'd been expecting Dr Jekyll?"

Turning and sneering at me, he then rips off his jacket and shouts at me.
"Shut up! Just shut up. It's all your fault."

I step back, my ankle bone banging painfully on the leg of the coffee table, I stutter back an answer. My words come out sounding braver than I imagined.
"What on earth's got into you? What's all my fault?"

Jack comes back from the window to stare at me. His pupils are dilated and the smell of alcohol is almost too much to bear. He shouts at me again, seemingly forgetting who I am and what we mean to each other entirely. "It was your idea we came here. I should have stayed in Scotland."

Instead of being afraid, I surprise myself, my fists clench and my cheeks burn at his outrageous outburst. Before I know what I'm doing, I stand up to him and shout back.
"And maybe you should have stayed with Christine. You arsehole."

Jack doesn't even flinch. He turns round and heads out the door.

My breathing is heavy and my heart racing as I slide to the window to watch where he's going. I have a very bad feeling about this.