**Diary Entry**
I am the mistress. If I leave, I lose everything—my child, the money, the luxury. Yet happiness eludes me.
I always despised the countryside. Narrow streets, a handful of shops for the whole town, evenings so quiet the silence hummed in your ears. In winter, it felt like the world had died. If anyone had asked me then about my dreams, I wouldn’t have hesitated: *”Just one—to leave. Forever.”*
I wasn’t some great beauty. But there was always James, my classmate, who’d adored me since childhood. He endured my moods, my sharp tongue, my indifference. Even when I spent summers away at my father’s, he’d still be waiting outside my house when I returned, that same devotion in his eyes.
Back then, my brother and I were in school, Dad was out of work, and Mum barely scraped by. When we couldn’t afford a hairdresser, I’d pick up the scissors and cut my brothers’ hair myself. And at some point, I realised—I was actually good at it.
One night after graduation, in that suffocating small-town silence, it hit me: this skill could be my ticket out. I packed a bag and left for London. Enrolled in a hairdressing course.
Soon enough, my instructor noticed my knack for it and offered me a spot at her salon. Through clients, I learned how to carry myself—makeup, style, the works. At first, I sat in cheap cafés, then moved on to proper restaurants, loving the way men looked at me. Like I mattered.
And that’s where I met *him*.
He picked up my bag—the one I hadn’t realised I’d dropped. I remembered him from the next table, frowning, lost in thought. Later, we crossed paths on the escalator. He asked where I was headed, and before I knew it, I was in his car—a top-range Land Rover, fresh off the showroom floor. On the drive, I told him about my work, and he dropped me near my flat.
A month later, I nearly dropped my scissors when he walked into the salon. He’d *looked* for me. That’s where it began.
He was thirty-five years older. But he gazed at me like I was a goddess. Michelin-starred meals, five-star hotels, holidays in places most only dream of. He said he was in love. Me—just a girl from nowhere—living a fairy tale. And I never wanted it to end.
Of course, he was married. But he swore his marriage was long dead. Children? None, never wanted them. That’s when I saw my chance.
I was young. But was youth really a barrier? A baby would tie him to me forever. And by then, his affection had grown familiar—almost pleasant.
I got pregnant almost immediately. And for a while, life was paradise. Gifts, attention, care… When our daughter, Poppy, was born, he beamed like the sun. Doted on her, spoiled her with toys and clothes.
Poppy grew up like royalty—nannies, tutors, structure. Me? I flitted between spas, reinventing myself. I turned spoiled, impatient, snapping at waitresses or manicurists. I wasn’t that small-town girl anymore. I was *the mother of his child.* And I wanted more.
He bought me a salon, made me manager. A car. A spacious flat. But I was still just the mistress. And it gnawed at me. I seethed. He, in turn, grew controlling—no outings alone, terrified I’d leave.
It was all so lavish… yet the one thing missing was freedom. The kind James once gave me.
Then, one day in Harrods, I saw him. *James.* Arm around a pregnant woman in a simple coat. They browsed baby clothes, laughing softly, warm in a way I’d forgotten. He didn’t just overlook me—he looked *through* me, disgusted, and walked on, kissing her temple. I stood there like a discarded leaf, torn from the soil that once gave me roots.
Now, I’m at a crossroads.
If I leave, I lose it all—Poppy, the money, the comfort. If I stay, I’ll always be the mistress. Not even a wife. Just a convenient shadow.
I’m afraid. I’m ageing. I don’t know if I can ever love again.
I’m afraid because Poppy cries at night. Because kids at school taunt her—*”Your grandad picking you up?”* Because one day, she’ll ask, *”Mum, why did you do this?”* and I won’t have an answer.
Lately, I wake up dreaming of our old little house. Of being free. Of just *living*. But with pockets full of cash.
So I sip my coffee, check my reflection, pick up the phone—and call the list. Hairdresser, nails, spa, shopping… Clinging to the surface so I don’t hear the collapse beneath.
How long can I keep this up? God knows.
Lesson learned too late: luxury buys comfort, but never peace.