I celebrated my divorce with girlfriends - now I regret the split eight years on. Photo / 123rf
Couples falling out over Christmas leads to a spike in divorce inquiries in the first week in January. But don’t be too hasty
It’s eight years now since my decree absolute was finalised. Receiving the official documentation – stating that Michael* and I were no longer man and wife – was really quite anticlimactic by then.
The tears had long dried up, and the bitter resentment and hurt had softened. The silver-framed photos from our idyllic 2002 wedding had been quietly stored in the loft years before, replaced with cheap, jolly wall prints ordered online. The neon pink “Don’t be afraid to give up the good for the great” slogan had surely been purchased after drinking wine. Divorce is so ghastly, painful and guilt-laden, you sort of have to get carried away with this female empowerment mentality to get through.
When that final legal letter arrived that day in June 2017, I hid it in a drawer before the twins, then 9, returned from school. Then I WhatsApped girlfriends: “I’m officially freeeeee! Let’s celebrate?”
Their “woo hoo” replies were enthusiastically peppered with emojis: the dancing lady, the party streamer, champagne bottles and some saucy aubergine “get back in the saddle” ones. That weekend we all toasted my officially single status with flutes of crémant and someone brought cupcakes topped with funny mottos like ‘End of an error’ and ‘Ding dong the jerk is gone’.
We all remembered that famous image of Nicole Kidman throwing her arms up joyfully after she’d divorced Tom Cruise, and giggling, I larked around recreating it.
Unlike Kidman, however, I hadn’t been “liberated” from a Scientologist Hollywood star, only a fairly successful businessman of 42. And I wasn’t an Oscar-winning actor, just a Home Counties mum-of-two.
Michael and I had been Bristol University contemporaries, only getting together in our late 20s when I was working as a conference planner and he was starting his own manufacturing business. He was dry-humoured, dark-haired, and as a state school girl from a working-class background, I found his public schoolboy confidence very seductive. We also had fun (easy to forget once you’ve endured divorce). He proposed during an elephant ride in Sri Lanka, and when the animal stopped to dump during the romantic moment we didn’t see it as a bad omen. We laughed, knowing we’d enjoy retelling that funny story forever.
My dad, a builder, was so proud walking his only child down the aisle in the chapel where my groom had attended school, and my mum fussed for weeks about serviette colours (I reminded her to say “napkins” with Michael’s family) and tablecloths. We struggled to get pregnant, but eventually our IVF twins, a boy and girl, arrived in 2007.
I think our marital problems really set in when Michael’s business took off: he travelled a lot, entertained clients most evenings, and wanted to swap our Shepherds Bush terrace – where I had my mums’ network – for a detached home in Buckinghamshire with a garden and great schools. I agreed it was better for the kids, but it was more isolating for me, especially as I’d given up my career (conference planning was not family-friendly hours). The suburban mums' “stitch and bitch” gatherings weren’t my thing, while Michael’s longer commute meant he was home even later. Our only “quality time” together was on holidays (admittedly these were skiing, Italian villas and safari vacations – I’m not expecting sympathy). But then he’d get irritated by the kids – being so generally unused to actually parenting them – and we’d bicker. I started resenting him.
During a rare date night I admitted to Michael I was lonely. “You need a hobby, Claire, take up singing again, I’ll pay for lessons.” That night we felt close enough to enjoy sex, another thing that was frankly rare by then.
I’ve always loved singing and was in a band at uni, but had only sung in the shower since then. So I booked private lessons with Jude*, a teacher I found on Facebook, for Thursday evenings when Michael was inevitably out.
What happened next? You can probably guess, it’s embarrassingly cliched I know…
Yes, I was the bored housewife ripe for an affair after a decade of marriage. Though in my defence, Jude was, by anyone’s standard, ridiculously fit. With his dirty blond hair, skinny jeans and – my goodness – that throaty sexy voice. The polar opposite of the corporate suit Michael had become. Jude played gigs, knew well-known bands and lived in town; his life bohemian, cool life was everything mine was not.
Through singing I found my voice again, literally and metaphorically. Jude’s undivided attention, eye contact, and his hand placed tantalisingly on my diaphragm showing where my breath needed to come from was the most excitement I’d had in years. When he invited me to see his band play, having him wink at me from that Camden stage (Okay, a room above a pub) will remain one of the most thrilling moments of my life.
Predictably, our “lessons” turned into passionate sex in the “music room” (never in the marital bed). The affair was so all-consuming and addictive that by month four I couldn’t lie to Michael (who had apparently not noticed any change in me) any longer.
I packed the children off to sleepovers and over red wine (for courage) I blurted out the truth: “I’m in love with Jude and I want a divorce.”
Michael’s face drained. He was shocked, angry, hurt and humiliated. Understandably. There was swearing, shouting and for the first time ever I saw Michael cry, deep anguished, guttural sobs. This shocked me, I felt he’d stopped caring.
He begged me to try marriage counselling. “You can’t throw away 11 years of marriage without trying,” he pleaded. And I knew he was right. “And you’ve got to stop seeing that twat,” he added.
I promised I would sever contact with Jude while we tried therapy. My mum was so horrified by the drama, she drove straight over the next day and lectured me about being a “spoiled princess”. Unlike her, she pointed out that Michael, my children’s father, provided me with everything: the house, the cleaner, exotic holidays, I didn’t have to work and I had an allowance for my hair, gym and beauty treatments. “Michael doesn’t cheat, hit you or come home drunk – what’s your problem?” I hated that women of Mum’s generation had such a low bar for marriage, although I still felt childish saying, “but Jude is my true love”.
After two months of counselling I did make the “sensible decision” to give our marriage another go. We tried, but Michael was so mistrustful and jealous, it made me like him even less. In the end it was actually Michael who called time on our marriage, eight months after I had tried to. And I was relieved really, my heart hadn’t been in it.
Despite Jude’s devastation at the time I broke it off, he’d already moved with someone else by then. Seeing his Facebook posts about new gigs and pictures of his woman hurt so much, and made me feel foolish. I suppose it all served me right.
As divorces go, ours was relatively straightforward, took two years and cost around £3000 ($6656 (this is considered “cheap” I think). There was no mention of adultery, just “unreasonable behaviour”. I later discovered Michael had hidden some of his money, so I didn’t come out financially that well from the settlement.
Michael has since remarried a childless barrister, and they enjoy luxury holidays while mine are more modest Eurocamp breaks. I’ve now been with Martin*, a dentist I met on Hinge, for three years.
He’s lovely, and I get on with his adult son and even his ex. I’d describe our relationship as “really good,” and while we don’t live together (part of my divorce agreement states Michael only pays for the family house providing no other man moves in) Martin offers me emotional support, intelligent conversation, someone to cuddle up with on the sofa in the evenings and be my plus-one at dinners.
But I can’t lie, divorce has left me financially less secure, and it’s divided our family. Now we split the Christmases and family birthdays have to be navigated so make it fair.
Being with someone who isn’t the father of your children brings another element I hadn’t anticipated, you don’t share the same connection. So when my son was rushed to A&E with a sporting injury, and Martin drove me to the hospital and comforted me, I knew he wasn’t sharing in the same cold-blooded terror I felt at that moment. Similarly, he can’t delight in all the kids’ little achievements and funny anecdotes in the same way.
When I remember celebrating my divorce in those naive early days, I imagined it would be all head rushes and exciting sex like the kind I’d had with Jude. I craved freedom, spontaneous minibreaks and imagined myself “living my best life”. But I’m still a mum, with all the adult responsibilities, stresses and mundane domestic arrangements. And in all honesty, once that initial passion fades, long-term sex becomes the same with any man. Nice, but not earth-shattering. Or even that regular.
Once the kids leave home in the next few years I’ll have to downsize to a cheaper area, which seems a rather bleak prospect.
In reflective moments, I sometimes wonder whether I should have tried harder to make my marriage work. What if I had told Michael how unhappy I was, before I acted impulsively and destroyed it. (Though I refuse to admit this to my mother.) I’m sure divorce can be liberating for many people, especially if the circumstances are toxic. But I’d advise others to think with their head and not just your heart before calling the lawyers. The grass isn’t always greener on the other side.
As told to Susanna Galton
*Names and identifying details have been changed to protect privacy
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