Dear Diary,
I could hardly believe my eyes when I spotted my former wife outside the glass front of an upscale Mayfair restaurant. James Whitaker thats me stood frozen, my mouth suddenly gone dry. No, it cant be her, I muttered to myself, bewildered that Gwen Thompson could have changed so dramatically.
Through the window she sat, a striking blonde, typing intently on her laptop. A waiter placed a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and a delicate pastry topped with raspberries and strawberries on her table. How does she look so polished? And whats that expensive bracelet on her wrist? I whispered, biting my lip and inching away so she wouldnt notice me.
We had met six years ago, just after Id finished university and taken a junior role at a wellknown construction firm in Birmingham. My career was taking off. At an equipment exhibition I struck up a conversation with a pleasant girl working a booth. Do you want to ditch the excavators and grab a coffee? I asked cheerfully. She smiled, and we talked. Quiet, friendly Gwen immediately caught my attention.
In my mind she was the perfect partner compliant, agreeable, someone I could shape into the ideal, obedient wife. I imagined a future where shed keep the house, raise the children, and never question me. I even let myself think that, should motherhood ever get in the way, I could find someone else.
When I later asked Gwen what she was doing at the show, she shyly confessed, Im writing short stories and hoping to break into screenwriting. She blushed, her blue eyes sparkling. I thought, She has no money, no connections I could mould her into anything I want. I bragged to anyone whod listen.
A few weeks later I bought a coffee from a stall across the street and sat on a bench to watch Gwen. When she emerged, I was stunned. She glided in a fur coat, her walk elegant, her car a sleek sports model. In three short years shed transformed beyond anything I could have imagined. I gulped my hot tea, my hands shaking around the cup, convinced she must have found a rich husband.
That night I lay awake. After our breakup Gwen had blocked me on every social platform. I created a new account just to stalk her photos. Envy, jealousy, rage a cocktail of negative emotions flooded me as I watched her pose in luxury hotels, clutch designer bags, flaunt flawless skin. She must have lost at least ten kilos, I cursed, Whats she doing in the gym? Plastic surgery? My phone vibrated with her latest posts, each one a dagger.
The next morning a memory of one of our early conversations resurfaced. Its all a matter of taste, Gwen had said, modestly. I scoffed, Who reads my writing anyway? She replied, I already have admirers. I retorted, If you have no brain, maybe lowbrow stories suit you.
When she finally raised her voice, trembling, James, why cant you accept that I have my own ambitions? Ive been with you for a year, yet you never support my work, I snapped back, If youd actually help me with the business, I wouldnt be chained to the office all day. I told her, in a fit of fury, that she should abandon her stories and become my assistant. She stared at me, eyes wet, pleading, My writing is my soul! I dismissed her feelings as useless, ordering her to follow a daily task list I would hand her.
She sobbed, I dont understand why youre taking away what matters to me. I replied, Ive supported you, bought you gifts, taken you on holidays. Either help me or get out. I pointed to the door. She turned away, wiping tears, and shut down her laptop forever.
A year later I had amassed enough capitalpartly from selling my late mothers cottage to launch my own construction company. Gwen, now my fulltime employee, handled paperwork, presentations, and coordinated site crews. She worked tirelessly, but the stress and a growing sweet tooth led to rapid weight gain. I confided in a mate at the pub, What am I to do with this well, this bulk? Shes become almost unrecognisable. My friend laughed, Maybe its time to find a replacement.
I downloaded a dating app and soon met Olivia Clarke, a fitnessobsessed brunette who agreed to be my new companion after one dinner in a trendy Soho restaurant. She whispered, You love how I look, as we lay in a rented flat with a panoramic city view a place Id secured for secret rendezvous. I stroked her hair, thinking of the money I could now spend on her hair, nails, gym memberships, and still feel superior.
Olivia quickly pushed Gwen out of my thoughts. I returned home one evening, weary from a weekend with Olivia, to find Gwen offering me pasta with pesto, Just the way you like it. I barked, Im not eating. She tried to discuss work; I treated her as just another employee, demanding more from her than anyone else.
Within months my business started to falter. Contracts slipped away, partners withdrew, and I blamed Gwen for the decline. In a bitter divorce I ensured she walked away with nothing, evicting her on the spot.
Three years later, a photos location tag told me she now lived in a suburb of Surrey, next to some affluent neighbour. I thought, I have a meeting with an investor nearby; Ill swing by and see how shes doing. I sipped my tea, musing how a plain grey mouse could turn into a rose.
Out of the blue, Olivia messaged: James, we should break up. Ive met someone else. I exploded, I paid for your trip! How could you? I hurled abuses at her, she blocked my number and sent a voice note, Calm down, James. Ill be fine.
Dejected after the investor turned me down, I drove to the upscale Surrey estate where Gwen now lived. After a long cigarette break, a sleek black car pulled up. Gwen opened the gate, eyes narrowing. James, what are you doing here? I stammered, I just wanted to see how youre doing. She smirked, You banned me from writing, left me to work for free, then tossed me out. I pleaded, Let me in, just for a moment. I kicked a small stone, feeling foolish.
She eventually let me in, curiosity glinting in her eyes. Whos keeping you afloat now? I asked, eyeing her spacious living room. She replied, No one. I bought this myself. I followed her to the kitchen, where she placed a glass of water on the table. How could you change so much in three years? How did you afford this? I asked, genuinely bewildered.
She smiled, I returned to screenwriting. I sold a few pilot scripts to production companies. They didnt think my work was rubbish. Today Im one of the countrys most recognised writers; my shows air on the main channels. Her confidence was a quiet thunder.
I tried to claim half of her success, You only succeeded because I forced you to grow. She laughed, The only thing I learned from you was how lowdown people can be. I demanded she hand over a safe or the money she kept hidden. She stood, pointed to the door, and said, Youll get nothing from me.
In a fit of desperation I grabbed her elbow, trying to push her toward the fireplace, shouting, Tell me where the money is, or you wont leave alive. She calmly rubbed her elbow, looking straight at me, and said, Lonely women keep cats. Then she added, But Im not all women; Im different. She stepped back, and two massive DobermansChilli and Willy emerged from the hallway, eyes fixed on me. Chilli drooled on the marble floor, Willy growled low.
Chilli, Willy, youre mine now, Gwen said, her voice steady. The scene was absurd, yet I felt my confidence crumble as the dogs circled. I tried to flee, but the hallway was too narrow. The dogs lunged, and the next moments were a blur of shouts, a police siren, and bright lights.
The cameras in Gwens house recorded everything. I was sentenced to a conditional term, my life forever altered. Gwen, now married to a talented director, is expecting a child and seems genuinely happy. Rumour has it shes thriving, and the old saying rings true: the best revenge is to succeed without the person who tried to hold you back.
If you read this, remember: belief in oneself can move mountains.
James Whitaker.
