Arthur slammed the brakes in front of the wroughtiron gate and froze. The Jeep had already slipped behind the trees, and the gate clanged shut behind him, leaving him like an unwanted visitor on the threshold. Before his eyes rose a sleek country housefloortoceiling windows, a manicured lawn, colourful flower beds, and a tidy pond. Every line sang of wealth and status.
Does she live here? Blythe? Where does she find the money for a place like that? the thought thumped in his mind.
Jealousy sliced him like a cold blade. Arthur, who spent his whole life bragging that he was a serious man and who had left his ex with nothing, now sat in his battered Vauxhall outside her doors. And she she had apparently succeeded.
He lingered in the car, then saw the lamps flicker on in the windows. Inside, silhouettes laughed, glasses of wine rose, and among them stood Blytheconfident, smiling, with that bright look he had once tried to dim.
By God he whispered. How is this possible?
The next day he returned. He waited for another car to pull in and slipped through the gate behind it, heart hammering like a frantic drum.
On the veranda Blythe held a camera, directing two young men with lighting rigs. Beside her a woman typed at a laptop. The scene felt more like a professional studio than a home.
Arthur lunged forward, but Blythe saw him instantly.
Arthur? her voice was calm, tinged with surprise. What are you doing here?
I he cleared his throat, uneasy. I just wanted to see how you live.
She stared at him for a long beat, as if reading his thoughts.
Im doing well, she finally said. I work.
You work? Arthur laughed bitterly. And that work bought you a Jeep and a house?
The two young men exchanged awkward glances. Blythe waved them away.
Yes, she replied. I run my own studio. We produce work for magazines, brands, galleries. I found investors and it all paid off.
Arthur blinked. He had never imagined photography could be that lucrative.
Youre lying! he exploded. After the divorce you had nothing!
Thats right, Blythe nodded. I had nothing but myself. And that turned out to be enough.
Her words struck him like a hammer. The timid, silent woman he had left penniless was gone; before him now stood a strong, beautiful, selfassured woman who feared nothing.
Do you think Ive forgiven you? she said softly. No, Arthur. I let you go, and thats why I began to live.
His throat went dry. He tried to explain, to justify, to beg for forgiveness, but only managed:
You were always nothing. Without me.
Blythe sighed, a smile ghosting her lips, tinged with regret.
No, Arthur. I was nothing at all with you.
A tiny girl, about six, darted out of the house and leapt into Blythes arms.
Mum! she shouted, delighted.
Arthur froze.
This he stammered.
This is my daughter, Blythe said evenly. And you have nothing to do with her.
He watched them, feeling something inside him shatter. For the first time he realized he hadnt just lost a woman; hed lost the whole chance of a different future.
From that day on he returned home seeing everything through altered eyes. His new girlfriend teased his old car, demanded gifts, theatre tickets, highsociety events. In her gaze there was only interest, no affection.
One night he confessed, Im jealous. Im jealous of the woman I destroyed myself.
He sat alone in his grey flat, staring at the faded wallpaper, unable to recall the last time he had truly laughed.
Meanwhile Blythe opened an exhibition in the heart of London. Her photographs captured lifestreet scenes, portraits, cityscapes. Each image glowed with light, freedom, emotion. The crowd applauded, critics penned enthusiastic reviews. Blythe stood among them, calm and proud, knowing she had won.
It wasnt Arthur who beat her. She had beaten the past version of herself, the Blythe who had been silent and conciliatory.
And he remained outside, alone, in the darkness.
Only then did he realize: the greatest defeat in life is losing the person you ought to have supported, and instead trying to crush them.
