"Almost as soon as the ink on the divorce papers had dried, my delightful husband hooked up with a woman half his age." Photo / Getty Images
Getting left behind for being the boring wife while my ex went off with a younger woman hurt like hell – but I don’t envy his new partner.
If I’m honest, I was always trying to be something I wasn’t when I was married. Someone a bit more bohemian than the girl who grew up, in a totally unremarkable 1960s-style close in Suburbia, assuming marriage and 2.4 kids would be her destiny.
But in the end, my life has still resulted in a cliche of sorts, as three years ago we separated – and almost as soon as the ink on the divorce papers had dried, my delightful husband hooked up with a woman half his age. And yes, the hurt and humiliation are very real.
The irony is, until my ex “upgraded” to someone young enough to be his daughter, I was originally the younger woman, 12 years his junior.
I met Saul* on an elite dating app for high flyers when I was 37. I had a fairly senior job in the crisis communication world and owned a flat in Primrose Hill. Saul, then 49, was a Notting Hill divorcee with two sons at university and was in the process of selling his company. He was the kind of man who’d send bouquets so vast I’d need a taxi to get them home from my office, and he’d swoop into restaurants when I was out with my girlfriends and pick up the tab for us all. They nicknamed him “Big”, saying he was like the charismatic charmer Carrie Bradshaw fell for in Sex And The City. He loved that, and for me his age only added to his appeal.
From cosy winter weekends in Bruges to giggling fits at Amsterdam sex shows together, we were so loved up that when I learnt I was pregnant, four months after meeting, I took it as a sign we were meant to be. He proposed in Barcelona with the locals clapping. Heartbreakingly, I miscarried a week later, but our big country house wedding was the perfect distraction.
I assumed we’d try again once married. I’d describe Saul as sexually voracious, but he wasn’t interested in baby-making – despite my fertility window closing. Friends hosted lunches full of kids happily shrieking and I’d bounce toddlers on my lap, but driving home Saul would mutter about lack of discipline or remark how my friend had “lost her figure now”. Later, in bed, he’d kiss my gym-honed tummy, unblemished by stretch marks. I’m ashamed to say I craved this approval.
With hindsight I see that Saul had never wanted a child, or a mother for a wife, he’d been there, done that. About two years into marriage he said how hot it would be to see me flirt with waiters, or his friends. Initially, it was quite fun, I felt desired and sexy. But then every time we made love it seemed to involve fantasies about other men and me, the “hot wife”. He was always more racy, and teased me for being “prim”. This caused a row when – for my birthday “surprise” – he booked a tantric retreat in the south of France, promising “deeply connected intimacy”. Having a tattooed hippy woman instruct me on the art of prostate massage was the most excruciating weekend of my life. “What’s wrong with just normal married sex?” I cried on the way home.
Other dynamics also changed. Without his company to run, Saul’s drive and energy – once so attractive – diminished. His beautiful bespoke suits and expensive colognes were rarely worn. My career, on the other hand, thrived. I’d come home pining for him to run me a bath or rub my feet, but all the tender intimacy had gone.
Somehow the marriage limped on, shored up by socialising in groups and renovating properties until, soon after our 10th wedding anniversary, I found out Saul had enjoyed a private session with the awful tantric woman. I retaliated with a miserable one night stand of my own. “I can’t do this any more,” I sobbed during a late night kitchen confrontation. I longed for him to hold me and reassure me we could start afresh. Instead he agreed our marriage had run its course and we wanted different lives.
The divorce dragged out for almost two years. Dividing our assets was messy as he’d been wealthier when we met, but over the years I’d ploughed more into lengthy building works. (I’m not expecting sympathy – yes we are privileged.) We ended up signing divorce papers while still jointly sharing one property which had become a financial and legal nightmare. This meant Saul and I continued having to meet after the decree absolute.
These cafe meetings were always civil and respectful – until during one of them three years ago when I saw his wedding ring. An unapologetic gold band on his ring finger. I virtually spat out my coffee. I was so shocked. He couldn’t make eye contact as he admitted he’d remarried. It was the first I’d heard of it, or the relationship. Our divorce had only been finalised five months earlier. Speechless, I walked out of the cafe.
Saul is the wrong age for social media but from awkward calls to mutual acquaintances I learned the wedding had taken place six weeks before. The new bride worked in a gallery, and the most hurtful part – she was just 33. My 62-year-old ex-husband had upgraded. How I hated him that day.
I found a few pictures of the woman my friends nicknamed “the child” online. Enough for me to see how her generous lips, fresh skin and thick hair all compared to my own, withered from menopause. At 51, my waist was thickening, my neck “waddling” and my HRT patches a constant reminder of my shrivelling femininity.
Another kick in the teeth was in store – which again, Saul didn’t bother telling me about. A message mistakenly left by a foreign estate agent on my phone, instead of the new Mrs G*, promised the house sale would be complete before “the bambino”. Confused, I replayed that voicemail God knows how many times before I twigged that “the child” was pregnant.
I rang Saul, shouting something as unsophisticated as “Are you f---ing joking – you’re having a baby?” When he didn’t deny it, and told me to “calm down”, I entirely lost it and screamed so many obscenities he hung up.
Despite being teetotal since our divorce, I bought two bottles of Pouilly-Fumé, smashed my Tracey Emin lights (Saul’s 40th birthday present to me), then hurled more abuse down the phone until he blocked me. I can only describe the uncontrollable anger as if a wild woman had been released, with years of incandescent rage and resentment all violently bursting out of me. I ended that night heaving into the loo in between my guttural sobs.
My friends all rallied, loyally labelling him “a bastard” with a paunch and bald spot. That helped. But my sister fuming he “robbed you of your fertile years” was painful.
After a lot of therapy, I’ve accepted that deep down, perhaps I never wanted children enough, knowing I’d be the one doing it all. And hadn’t I too enjoyed the high life, unencumbered by children? Seeing friends with their teenagers now gives me pangs, but as they point out, being child-free has meant there is no reason to share a room with Saul ever again.
I’m sure it’s awful for every woman who’s left single while their husband finds new love. But it’s especially brutal when that woman is so much younger. I cringe about the cliches I fell into in the aftermath, the cosmetic “tweakments” which only made me look a bit odd, the silly fling with a 30-something from the gym. Sleeping with someone young does not make you feel younger, I found out, unless you’re a man, clearly, it only highlights your own crepey skin and creaky joints.
The pain gets easier though. Today, I am genuinely content at nearly 52. I love my work and took a prestigious new job in the States this year. There’s no chance of running into my ex, “the child” and their baby boy. I’ve no interest in dating apps, I have my career, great friends and thankfully I got to keep the dog.
Time and distance has given me perspective. I don’t envy the new girl. I can’t imagine Saul wanted a child in his 60s, but probably feared he’d lose her otherwise. She’ll be a carer in her 40s, cutting his toenails, dealing with his gout and perhaps wiping his backside. Good luck to her – and good riddance to him.
*Names and identifying features have been changed
Tracey Cox is a leading expert on sex and relationships and the author of 18 books, including Great Sex Starts at 50: How to age-proof your libido. Here’s her advice for women in this situation...
Allow yourself to grieve but don’t stay there forever
You will feel betrayed, shocked and (very) angry or sad. Don’t suppress it but set limits. Prolonged rumination tends to worsen anxiety and depression.
Maintain a structure to your day
You may not feel like getting up, getting outside, eating well or getting lots of sleep, but I promise you all this will help. Life may feel very different, but letting go of all normal routines will make you feel worse.
Reclaim your identity
Who are you besides being a wife? What are your interests and strengths? What did you put on hold or neglect because of your relationship? Connect with old friends. Start doing hobbies and activities you love. Walk in nature. Book a holiday with a friend. Sign up for a course. Feeling competent and in control of other areas of your life boosts confidence.
Get support
Lean on people you trust – friends and family. Therapy will help you work through feelings of shame and self-blame and make sure you choose your next partner wisely.
Don’t stalk
Delete your partner’s account from all social media. Don’t spy on his new girlfriend. Ask friends NOT to tell you what’s going on with them or it will be death by a thousand cuts.
Console yourself with this: many men regret leaving their marriages
Research suggests around 40% of men regret their divorce. The honeymoon period stops at some point for everyone – no matter how old your partner is.
As told to Susanna Galton