My friend Imogen is an absolutely incredible cook. Heavenly, divine—she could turn a simple courgette and potato into something extraordinary! And her baking! That golden, crispy meat of every kind!
But that’s not why I’m telling you this.
Imogen is overweight. Quite a bit, honestly, but she’s genuinely beautiful—smooth as a rosy apple, lively, no shortness of breath, no high blood pressure. She’s been married to her husband, Gregory, for fifteen years. And for all fifteen of those years, Gregory has taken vicious, almost gleeful pleasure in mocking her for her size. Creatively, too, always with some new twist. In front of friends. In front of strangers. He’d even invent these so-called “affectionate” nicknames—my little heifer, my hippopotamus. Oh, she stepped on my foot, my whole leg’s shattered!
He’d gush over fitness models or just anyone lucky enough to have good genes. Even I got a few of those backhanded compliments, and like an idiot, I’d leap to Imogen’s defence, ranting about metabolism, genetics, body types—useless.
Imogen always kept a straight face, even smiled at the jokes. Sometimes she’d even poke fun at herself. But after their daughter was born, things got worse. The girl inherited Imogen’s “apple” figure, and as she neared puberty, Gregory shifted his cruelty onto her: Why are you stuffing your face? You’ll end up like your mum—look at yourself, don’t you want to be pretty instead of some shapeless lump?
And that’s when Imogen finally snapped. She confronted Gregory once, twice, three times—telling him to stop, that it wasn’t right. But of course, it fell on deaf ears. Then, about a year ago, there was an explosion. I wasn’t there, but I heard the story.
Gregory was at it again, cracking jokes about his wife’s figure in front of a room full of people, when Imogen suddenly said: “Gregory, you know what? I’ve had enough. If you don’t like how I look, I’m not keeping you. Go find someone skinny. I’m done.”
She called a cab and left. Gregory just laughed it off, made more jokes—didn’t even chase after her. Where’s she gonna go? he said. She’ll yell, cool off, come crawling back. She knows she looks like an overripe tomato. Even his mates tried telling him he was out of line, that Imogen looked great—but no use.
When he got home, she was gone. So was their daughter. Turned out, they’d packed their things and moved in with Imogen’s parents—they had a house in another borough. The school run was a hassle now, but oh well. The second blow came when Imogen filed for divorce. Gregory couldn’t believe it. Over jokes? Really? Impossible! She must be cheating! Or—no, who’d want a woman that big?
But you’ve guessed it by now. There was no other man. Imogen was just done. She had a well-paid job at a major firm, her parents helped out—and before the marital home could even be split, she’d already bought a nice two-bed flat in a new development for her and their daughter.
After the divorce settlement, Gregory ended up with a one-bed. He had to sell the car—money split down the middle. Child support would bleed him dry for three more years, and on his salary, losing a quarter of it left him scraping by.
But the worst part? Gregory tells anyone who’ll listen that his ex, the witch, spoiled him with fifteen years of proper cooking, and now he’s stuck with ready meals or dragging himself to his mum’s for dinner. He dreams about her roast chicken at night, he says. Her shepherd’s pie. Those bloody perfect pastries—rows of them, all flaky and golden! Wakes up sobbing.
Tried dating? Oh, yeah. Found some bird. Cooks slop, barely edible. Yeah, she’s thin—ish. Not exactly a model at our age, is she? Why not a younger one? Well, apparently, his salary’s too low, and let’s be honest—he’s no Adonis himself these days. Got a gut, a bald patch, gets winded climbing stairs. Fifty’s a cruel mistress.
The most humiliating bit? Imogen lost weight. Not loads, but enough. A couple of dress sizes, easily. Mutual friends say she cooks differently now—still delicious, but lighter, more vegetables. She and their daughter were never mad for meat anyway. And those sweet pies? That was mostly Gregory’s thing.
Recently, he says, he saw her at the supermarket—struck him dumb. Walked right up to her, told her: “Blimey, you’re looking all right, actually. Really all right. Fancy giving it another go?”
And she told him where to go. Proper sent him packing.
He’s livid. Says he came at her with his heart wide open, and she shut him down. Ungrateful. Cold. After everything he did for her—if it weren’t for him, she’d still be waddling around like a heifer!
Imogen Hartwell.
