My mother always taught me that if you’re not sleeping with your husband enough, he will look elsewhere. It’s a lesson I tried to instil in my own daughter, Jane. Before she married, I implored her to be realistic about men’s desire for regular sex and always put matters in the bedroom first. Jane shrugged off my ‘antiquated’ views, condescendingly telling me no self-respecting modern man would ever act in this way.
But I was proved right. After they had their three children and Jane was busy juggling her career and motherhood, my son-in-law did indeed have an affair. With me. Yes, you read that correctly. I slept with the father of my grandchildren, my beloved daughter’s husband. And yes, I am daring to insinuate that it was my daughter’s fault for losing sight of her husband’s needs. Ironically, it was Jane who suggested Mike come and stay with me for six months, due to a work commitment away from home. I had accepted, believing it meant I could keep an eye on him on her behalf.
And yet... I found myself drawn to this funny, charming, intelligent and very attractive man who told me my daughter refused to be intimate with him. Writer Laura McGill says she and her son-in-law were both desperately lonely (file image). Believe me, I understand why you’d want me crucified. But I’m not a heartless monster. This wasn’t just no-strings sex; we had developed real feelings for each other.
And both of us were desperately lonely, after years of trying to deny deep-rooted fears that our marriages were off-kilter. My own husband, Pete, also worked away from home for weeks at a time. And when he was home, I felt like he didn’t really ‘see’ me. Whereas Mike looked at me like I was a goddess. He was the first person in years who really listened. But I know what we did was wrong. So how can I live with myself?.
It helps that my daughter and I live in different countries – the reason Mike needed somewhere to stay in the UK in the first place. If I had to see her every day the guilt would finish me off. I was 19 when I fell pregnant with Jane while studying English literature. I was desperately in love with her father, naively assuming he felt the same and we could raise our baby together. Sadly, he had no intention of sticking around.
My mother distant with me and quite authoritarian. When I told her I was pregnant, she was of the ‘you’ve made your bed, lie in it’ school of thought. I was forced to drop out of university, telling myself I’d return as a mature student. I never did. What’s worse, a horribly complicated birth meant my womb was removed – meaning I could never have more children. At the time, I was too young to understand the ramifications, but goodness I’ve cried over the years whenever I linger on it for too long.
In those early years I utterly resented being a mum, while my friends were out enjoying themselves and dating. By the time I considered dating again, I found most young men didn’t want to be saddled with another man’s child. I was incredibly lonely. That said, I was besotted with my gorgeous daughter. I moved back in with Mum, who helped look after Jane. She was far more affectionate towards her granddaughter than she ever had been to me.
Aged 30, I had my own marketing business and when Jane was eight we moved out of mum’s and into a rented home. It was five years later, when I was 35, that I met Pete, then 40, at a networking event. He was my first relationship since Jane’s dad. Pete was a funny, wise man who knew his way around a posh menu and had a cup half-full approach to life. Mum said I was lucky he was interested and, while I smarted at her comment, she was right.
Admittedly, though he did make me laugh and was reasonably good-looking, I probably wouldn’t have been attracted to Pete if I hadn’t already been a mother. But, in my situation, he seemed like a pretty good bet. Pete worked – and still does – in technology sales, and joked that airports were his second home. I knew from the off he’d be away at least one week in four. But when, after six months of dating, he proposed, I knew his salary would mean I could ease off with work and focus more on Jane.
A year after we met, Pete and I were married. Jane, then 14, very much approved of Pete. She had worried about me being alone. As she progressed into her late teens, it was clear we weren’t particularly similar. She is extremely empathetic, the first to volunteer for this charity or that good deed, whereas I confess that’s just not me. I’m far more outgoing than she is, too. We don’t look alike either. Jane isn’t blessed with my willowy figure; she is very much her father’s daughter. Short and brunette, she’s much more curvaceous; I’d always tried to ensure she watched what she ate.
At 18, Jane went to university to study languages. After graduating, she travelled around South America and Europe. She was 25 when she met Mike, then 28, while they were both in Spain. It was her first serious relationship, I was thrilled she’d bagged herself such a man. A tall, rowing type, he was charming to be around and had a good background; privately educated, he’d grown up in Wiltshire here his father was a GP.
