My mate Emma is an absolute wizard in the kitchen. Divine, mouth-watering, she could turn a courgette and a spud into something utterly glorious! And her baking! And that golden, crispy roast of every imaginable kind!
But that’s not the point.
Emma’s got a bit of extra weight. Quite a bit, actually, but she’s lovely—smooth as a ripe peach, full of energy, no wheezing or high blood pressure. She’s been married to her bloke, Nigel, for fifteen years. And for all fifteen of those years, Nigel’s been taking absolute delight in mocking her for that extra weight. Inventively, too, with flair. In front of friends. In front of strangers. He’d come up with ‘affectionate’ nicknames—my little heifer, my hippo. “Oi, she’s trod on my foot, my whole Nigel’s fractured!”
He’d rave about random gym bunnies or anyone blessed with good genes. Even I copped a few of those ‘compliments’ now and then, and like an idiot, I’d leap to Emma’s defence, banging on about metabolism and genetics. Pointless.
Emma always kept her chin up, even smiled at his jokes. Poked fun at herself, too. But after their daughter Lily was born, it got worse. Lily inherited her mum’s ‘peach’ figure, and by the time she hit puberty, Nigel switched targets: “Blimey, you eating all that? You’ll end up like your mum! Don’t you want to be pretty, not some shapeless grazing animal?”
And that’s when Emma finally snapped. She had a word with him once, twice, a dozen times—this isn’t on, you can’t talk to her like that. Useless, of course. Then, about a year back—bang. I wasn’t there, but I heard the tale. Nigel was at it again, cracking wise about Emma’s figure in front of everyone, and suddenly she just said: “Nigel, sod off. If you don’t like how I look, jog on. Find yourself a slim one—I’m done.”
Called a cab, went home. Nigel carried on, laughing, in no rush to follow. Where’s she gonna go, he said? She’ll have a moan and calm down. She knows she looks like an overripe tomato. Even their mates tried telling him he was out of line, that Emma looked great—waste of breath.
Emma wasn’t home. Neither was Lily. Turned out they’d packed their things and gone to Emma’s parents’ place—a proper house in another part of town. A bit of a trek to school, but manageable. Second blow? Emma filed for divorce. Nigel couldn’t believe it: what, over a few jokes?! No way! Must be seeing someone! Then again, who’d want someone her size…
You’ve probably guessed. There was no other bloke—Emma was just fed up. She’s got a cracking job at a big firm, earns a tidy sum, her parents chipped in—and before the marital flat could even be split, she’d bought herself and Lily a decent two-bed in a new build.
After the settlement, Nigel got a poky one-bed. Had to flog the car too, split the cash. And now he’s shelling out child support for three more years, his wages were never much, and after deductions? Barely worth the bother. Worst of all, he moans to his mates—his ex, the cow, spoiled him rotten for fifteen years with her cooking. Now he’s stuck with ready meals or scoffing down his mum’s attempts at dinner. Her roast chicken, he says, haunts his dreams. Her shepherd’s pie. Those flaky pastries, layered with fillings! Wakes up in tears. Find a new bird? Tried. Cooks some proper slop, inedible. Yeah, she’s slim(ish)—but at their age, supermodels are thin on the ground. Why not a younger one? Turns out, the ladies his age aren’t keen on his beer belly, receding hairline, and wheezing. Fifty’s fifty, after all.
The real kicker? Emma’s lost a bit of weight. Not loads, but noticeable—dropped a dress size or two. Mutual friends say she and Lily eat completely different stuff now—still delicious, but more veg, less meat (they never went mad for it). The sweet pastries? That was all Nigel’s doing—he had a sweet tooth. Ran into her at Tesco the other day, he says, and nearly choked. Went up to her: “Blimey, you’re looking sharp. Actually really nice. Fancy giving it another go?”
How’s that for cheek? What do you mean, no?
Proper gutted, he is. Came at her with his heart on his sleeve, and she swatted him away. Ungrateful, he mutters. If it weren’t for him, she’d still be waddling about like a giant pudding, the cynical… woman.
Judy Wainwright.
