Dear Diary,
Yesterday evening I found myself in the most opulent restaurant in London, only to recognise a familiar face from my pastmy former manager.
Eleanor, are you free Saturday night? Emma asked over the phone. I want to introduce you to someone. A business dinner at a nice venue.
I adjusted my glasses and set aside the spreadsheets I was reviewing.
What do you mean introduce? I replied. I told you Im not looking for anything.
Its not that, Emma laughed. Hes a business partner looking for a competent accountant for his new firm. The salary is attractive, the conditions excellent. I thought of you straight away.
The offer sounded tempting. My current job was stable, but the prospect was alluring.
What restaurant? I asked.
The Regency on Piccadilly. Have you heard of it?
I whistled. The Regency is renowned as one of the citys most prestigious eateries, where a typical bill starts at around £70 per person.
Luxury, I muttered. Alright, Ill come. What time?
Seven oclock. Dress smartly; the crowd is rather upscale.
After hanging up, I stood before the mirror. The reflection showed a 52yearold woman with peppered hair, fine lines around the eyes, a tired expressionnothing unexpected after three decades as an accountant.
Saturday night stretched out as I deliberated over my outfit. I finally chose a dark navy dress Id bought for a firm anniversary, added a light touch of makeup and modest jewellery, and slipped into a taxi bound for the restaurant.
The Regency greeted me with the soft glow of crystal chandeliers and a muted piano melody. At the entrance a uniformed maître d opened the door with a courteous bow.
Welcome, he said.
Inside, marble columns, velvet armchairs and gilded frames adorned the walls. It felt like a world apart from my usual surroundings, and a pang of selfconsciousness tugged at me.
Do you have a reservation? a sterndressed hostess asked.
Yes, under Clarke. I replied.
She checked the list, smiled, and led me to table seven by the window.
We passed a sea of impeccably dressed patrons. Emma was already seated with a man in his forties.
Eleanor! she called, rising. Finally! Meet Victor Gray. Victor, this is Eleanor Clarke, the accountant I told you about.
Victors handshake was firm, his smile warm. He spoke about his business, asked about my experience, and the conversation flowed easily. I could already picture myself in a new role.
Lets order first, then continue, Victor suggested, flagging a waiter.
A woman in a black uniform approached the table. My eyes snapped to the menu, then froze.
It was Irene Whitaker. My former manager.
The very woman who, seven years ago, had turned my life into a nightmare. She had belittled me in front of colleagues, nitpicked every detail, forced me to redo reports countless times, driving me to a nervous breakdown that forced my resignation and a sixmonth convalescence.
Irenes face went pale, her hands trembling as she held the order pad.
Good evening, she whispered, voice barely steady. What would you like?
Emma and Victor were oblivious, engrossed in the menu. I stared at my former tormentor, unable to believe my eyes.
She looked older, as she always had, but now she seemed exhausted, her onceimposing suit replaced by a modest waitress uniform. The arrogance that had defined her was gone.
Victor asked, Eleanor, have you decided?
Iyes, of course, I recovered. Ill have the Caesar salad and grilled salmon.
Irenes hand shook so violently the ink smeared across the paper. She whispered, Anything else? without looking up.
Victor replied, Thats all for now. Could we have some water and a bottle of wine, please? pointing to the wine list.
I watched Irene struggle to maintain a professional composure. A wave of mixed emotions surgedvindication? Pity? Satisfaction?
Emma noticed my pallor. Are you alright?
Just a bit tired, I managed a tight smile.
The conversation continued, but my mind drifted back to my first day at that firm. Irene had greeted me coldly, scanning me from head to toe.
Alright, newcomer, she had said then. Theres no room for laziness or incompetence here. Youll work hard, and I wont tolerate mistakes. Understood?
Id nodded, assuming she was merely strict. It soon became clear she was a despot.
Every minor slip attracted a reprimandlate reports, misplaced commas, a tenminute traffic delay that earned me a public scolding. She would berate me in front of the whole department, saying things like, What do you expect? Half my team are idiots.
I endured because I needed the income, but the stress took its toll: sleepless nights, headaches, spikes in blood pressure.
Then came the day she blew up over a fivepound discrepancy in a quarterly reportnothing that altered the result.
Are you serious?! she shouted, slamming the folder. Do you even understand what youre doing? This is why the company loses money! Fix it in an hour!
Something snapped inside me. I turned to her calmly and said, Im resigning. Effective immediately. Give me the paperwork; Im leaving today.
She was taken aback. You cant
Im leaving, I repeated, firmer. You never said a kind word to me in all these years. Im done.
I packed my things and walked out. That very day I suffered a hypertensive crisis and was hospitalized for nervous exhaustion. I spent six months recovering, learning to enjoy life again. Eventually I found a smaller, friendlier firm where the boss valued his staff.
Years passed. I forgave Irenenot for her, but for myself, so I wouldnt carry the burden of resentment. Yet fate brought us together again, this time under very different circumstances.
Irene returned to the Regency as a waitress, placing glasses, pouring wine, her hands still shaking as she fumbled with a corkscrew.
Victor, unaware, asked her, Everything alright?
She stammered, Yes, sorry. Ill get it right. She hurried away, avoiding my gaze.
I watched her serve, noting how the onceimperious manager was now humbled, her eyes dimmed, her posture slumped. The lavish suit of her past had been replaced by a simple apron.
Victor later asked, What will you have, Eleanor?
Ill have the Caesar and salmon, please, I replied, still a little stunned.
After the meal, Victor mentioned the salaryover £150,000 a year, plus bonuses and a generous pension scheme. He handed me his card, saying I could think it over.
I need time, I said. Its a big decision.
He smiled, Take a week. Call me when youre ready.
Emma beamed, clearly hoping Id accept.
When the bill arrived, I noticed it was well over £150. Victor settled it, and Emma left in a taxi. Victor drove off, while I lingered, claiming I wanted a short walk.
I stepped outside, strolled along the street, then slipped back through a service entrance Id seen earlier. A security guard eyed me.
I forgot my scarf in the cloakroom, I lied. May I through?
He waved me on, and I found a staffroom marked Employees Only. Inside, Irene sat on a chair, clutching a tissue, quietly weeping.
Mrs. Whitaker? I called gently.
She flinched, then wiped her tears and tried to stand.
Eleanor Im sorry, she began, voice breaking. I didnt expect you to see me like this. Its humiliating.
Im sitting, I said, pulling the door shut. Please, have a seat.
She sank back, eyes red, cheeks hollow.
What happened? How did you end up here? I asked, sitting opposite her.
She hesitated, then spoke softly. After you left, I kept working. Then an audit uncovered that the companys director had been forging documents, using my signature and stamps. I was oblivious, too busy humiliating staff. The police opened a case, the director fled the country, and I was named an accomplice. I got a suspended sentence and a ban on senior roles.
Did you know? I asked.
No! I swear I didnt. Everyone assumed I was part of it. My husband divorced me, took the house and car. I was left with nothing, she sobbed.
A part of me felt a grim satisfactionkarma, perhapsbut another part felt genuine compassion.
Ive been looking for work, but a conviction, even a suspended one, closes every door. I spent months couchsurfing before finding this job as a waitress, she confessed.
I understand, I said, offering a napkin. Why were you so harsh to us?
She shook her head. I dont know. I think I was compensating for my own insecurities. My husband treated me like a servant, never respected me. At work I took it out on others, feeling powerful for a moment. It was stupid, cruel.
It was, I agreed. And now youre on the other side, being the one whos looked down upon.
She nodded, tears streaming. A customer today told me Im too old to be a waitress, that I should retire. I just smile and nod because I need the money.
I thought of the Eleanor who had once stood silently while you berated her. The circle had closed.
Did you come here just to watch me? she asked, a hint of bitterness.
No, I said firmly. I came to talk.
You should hate me, she whispered.
I stopped hating you years ago, I sighed. Holding onto anger only poisoned me. I forgave younot for you, but for myself. When I saw you today, I first thought justice, but then I saw your tears and heard your story. Youve already been punished by life. I have no desire to add to your suffering.
She thanked me, and we fell silent as the muted chatter of the restaurant drifted in.
How much do you earn here? I asked.
About twenty pounds a night, plus tips, she replied. Its enough for a small flat and food.
A thought sparked. Would you like to work as an accountant again? Not in a senior position, just a regular one.
Her eyes widened. I would love to, but no one would hire me.
I can recommend you, I said, pulling Victors business card from my bag. Hes looking for a chief accountant. I could ask him to take you on as a junior.
She stared, disbelief turning to hope. You youd do that after everything I did?
Yes, I answered simply. Because Im not the kind of person who seeks revenge. I want people to change for the better, and youve already started changing.
She clutched my hand. I dont deserve your kindness.
Everyone who repents deserves a second chance, I said. But if you ever fall back into old habits, Ill make sure youre let go. Deal?
She nodded vigorously. Deal! I swear Ive changed!
Victors card felt like a lifeline. I promised to call him tomorrow, explain the situation, and arrange a meeting.
The next day I phoned Victor. Im willing to take the job, but I have a condition, I said.
Whats that? he asked.
I need a reliable assistant. I have someone in mindshe has a criminal record, but its not her fault. If you give her a chance, Ill start next week.
Are you taking responsibility for her? he inquired.
Yes, I replied. If she works, Ill vouch for her.
He agreed. Alright, she can join us.
I called the restaurant. Please give Irene Whitaker a call. Shell need to bring her documents on Monday.
She sobbed into the phone, Thank you. I wont let you down.
Monday arrived. Victor greeted us warmly, showed us around, and introduced us to the team. Irene worked quietly, efficiently, never looking up from the ledgers.
At lunch, she asked, May I ask why you helped me after everything I did?
I sipped my coffee, thinking. I was angry for a long time, but that anger was eating me. Forgiveness freed me. When I saw you at the restaurant, I first felt satisfaction, then compassion when I saw your pain. Helping you gave me peace.
She nodded, tears in her eyes. Im grateful. I was a cruel woman, but I want to be better.
Its a start, I said, smiling.
Weeks later, a new graduate joined our department, making mistakes and working slowly. Irene patiently guided her, never raising her voice, explaining procedures with kindness.
One evening I praised her. You handled the newcomer well today.
She blushed. I remember how you were when you first came to me Im ashamed of what I did. I try to be different now.
I patted her shoulder. Youre doing well. Keep it up.
Our professional relationship softened into friendship. We shared lunches, discussed news, and opened up about our lives.
She confessed, Im actually thankful for losing everything. It taught me to value people and be kinder. I hope Ive become better.
I replied, You have, and Im glad I could help.
She took my hand. You saved me, literally. I thought my life was over, and you reached out.
I could only shake her hand, words failing me.
Six months later Irene had a decent flat, a modest wardrobe, and a renewed spirit. She was no longer the tyrant I once feared.
One day a tax inspector visited, sharptongued and looking for any mistake. Irenes face tightened, but she responded politely, providing documents and explaining everything calmly.
When the inspector left without notes, she exhaled, Did we pass?
We passed with flying colours, I said, proud. You handled it perfectly.
She admitted, I would have snapped before. Now I see that harshness only breeds more harshness, while patience disarms even the toughest people.
Our experiment worked. Forgiveness proved the right choice.
Walking home later, I reflected on how strangely life folds. Seven years ago I was a victim, yearning for revenge. Now the woman who once tormented me sits beside me as a colleague, almost a friend. I chose forgiveness over vengeance, and it brought me more peace than any retribution could have.
The image of Irenes tearstained face in the restaurant, full of desperation, contrasts sharply with the calm, grateful smile she now wears. I know I made the right decision, and I have no regrets.
