My friend Emily is an incredible cook. Absolutely divine, mouthwatering—she could turn a simple courgette and potato into something extraordinary! And her baking! The way she roasts meat to golden perfection…!
But that’s not the point.
Emily carries extra weight. Quite a bit, honestly—but she’s lovely, smooth-skinned as a ripe peach, full of energy, no shortness of breath, no high blood pressure. She’s been married to her husband, Richard, for fifteen years. And for all fifteen of those years, Richard has delighted in tormenting her about her weight—relentlessly, cruelly, with a sickening spark of amusement. In front of friends. In front of strangers. He invents what he thinks are affectionate nicknames—*my little heifer. My hippo. Oi, she stepped on my foot, she’s crushed my whole leg!*
He lavishes praise on gym-toned women, or anyone blessed with good genetics. Even I’ve been subjected to his backhanded compliments a few times. Pointlessly, I’d leap to Emily’s defence—talking about metabolism, genetics, body types. Useless.
Emily always kept her composure, even smiled along with the jokes. Poked fun at herself. But after their daughter was born, things got worse. The girl inherited Emily’s rounded figure, and as she neared puberty, Richard shifted his focus. *God, must you eat so much? You’ll end up like your mother. Look at yourself—don’t you want to be beautiful? Not some shapeless lump!*
That’s when Emily finally snapped. She spoke to him—once, twice, three times. Begged him to stop. Of course, it fell on deaf ears.
Then, a year ago—the explosion. I wasn’t there, but I heard what happened. Richard was holding court, cracking his usual jokes about his wife’s figure, when Emily suddenly said, *Richard, you know what? Piss off. You don’t like the way I look? Sod off and find yourself a skinny one. I’ve had enough.*
She called a taxi, left. Richard kept laughing, making jokes. Didn’t rush after her. *Where’s she gonna go?* he scoffed. *She’ll calm down. She knows she looks like an overripe melon.* Even their friends tried telling him he was out of line—that Emily was gorgeous—but, predictably, nothing stuck.
When he got home, Emily was gone. So was their daughter. Turned out, they’d packed their things and moved in with Emily’s parents—their house was in another borough. Not the easiest commute for school, but they’d manage.
The second blow? Emily filed for divorce. Richard couldn’t believe it. *What, because of my jokes? Ridiculous! She must be having an affair!* Though, he mused, *who’d want some fat bird anyway?*
You can guess the rest. There was no affair. Emily had simply had enough. She’s well-paid at a top firm, her parents helped—and before the joint flat could be divided, she’d already bought a decent two-bedder in a new development for her and their daughter.
After the settlement? Richard was left with a cramped one-bed. Had to sell the car, split the money. Now he’s paying child support for three more years—his salary’s rubbish, and after deductions, it’s barely enough. And the worst part? He tells anyone who’ll listen that his ex, the *cold-hearted cow*, ruined him. *Fifteen years of her cooking, and now I’m stuck with frozen meals or dinner at Mum’s.* He dreams of her roast chicken, he says. Her shepherd’s pie. The pastries—rows of them, filled with God knows what. Wakes up crying.
*Find another woman? Tried that. She cooks slop. Unbearable. Yeah, she’s trim—well, sort of. At our age, it’s not like supermodels are queuing up. Couldn’t land a younger one? Nah. Salary’s too small, plus I’m not exactly Adonis these days—gut, bald patch, wheezing like an old boiler. Fifty’s a cruel bastard.*
But the real sting? Emily lost weight. Not drastically, but noticeably—dropped a couple of dress sizes. Mutual friends say she and her daughter eat differently now—still delicious, but more veg. Neither of them ever cared much for meat. The sweet pies? Those were always for Richard. He had a sweet tooth.
He ran into her at the supermarket recently, he says. Stood there, dumbstruck. Finally stammered, *You’re looking… alright. Actually, I quite fancy you like this. Let’s give it another go.*
*What d’you mean, ‘sod off’?*
He’s furious. *I came at her with an open heart, and she shuts me down. Ungrateful, cynical…*
*…woman.*
Louisa Whitaker.
