Chapter 1

Oh, he is so fucked.

We could have achieved everything. We could have been the next power couple. A gorgeous large home with a feature staircase; an adorable golden retriever called 'Bertie' we walk together every Saturday morning with lattes in hand; beach holidays to places like Cyprus or Majorca that we post on social media that make our followers question their miserable lives; black tie events with him in a perfectly tailored suit and me in 'that' little black dress. We could have had every-fucking-thing if it wasn’t for him!

Endless punishment: that is what I’ve endured. Do you even know how tough I’ve had to work? Can I even begin to describe how much work I’ve put in these past three years? Arse-numbing afternoons (or worse mornings) spent by the edge of a cold, muddy, dismal football pitch in the back-end of nowhere. Followed by drinking sessions in some squalid, roadside pub repeating the same phrases to a bunch of half-sweaty, half-stupid teammates: ‘you played well today’, ‘that was clearly going in', 'the bloody ref!' Then all the other crap that comes with dating a boy like him. Drinking pint after pint but not getting embarrassingly drunk because: 'you're just like one of the lads'. Or pretending to enjoy watching him play the new Fifa or Fortnite for the third hour in a row on our anniversary. Or missing his strong, warm body wrapped around mine, and his sleepy grin topped by fluffy morning hair and the sweetness of his breath when I wake up because he's up in Manchester on another lads football weekend.

But then he ruined it all. Yes, I hated parts of our relationship, but isn't compromise the whole point? In return for not complaining about the damp stench coming from his gym kit dumped under my seat in his car; I got the feel of his smooth, clean-shaven chin nuzzling into my neck when he was being cute at the bar. If I was patient, and I supported him financially and romantically until the right scout spotted him on the pitch. Then I would become the girlfriend of one of the most talented, good looking and promising young footballers of the decade. I was more than happy with that situation, I believed in him, I loved him. Until I found out about him and 'her'.

I never thought I'd become the stereotype, the 'woman scorned', but he's always pushed me beyond my comfort zone. (He's had me hiking up mountains or running around playing paintball in the past - I know, right?) She is such the little tart though, playing to another stereotype, all fake tan and tits! Not two brain cells capable of conversation beyond 'Wow, you're a footballer, amazing!' I have a fucking masters degree, membership to the philharmonic and a good job with an even better salary. But he has chosen some other girl who's idea of culture is a visit to a candy floss covered, sticky toddler filled, theme park and her career begins and ends at: barmaid. It wasn't just a one time fling either. Of course I know his phone's password (he's so thick, he couldn't remember another number other than his birthday) so I've read the messages. What he wants to do to her. What she's willing to swallow for him. He even texted her about one day getting a dog called 'Bertie'. Disgusting slut - I'm referring to him.

So that's fucking it.

I am going to destroy Isaac Walton.