I picked up a chopping board–I could have brained Ernest with it

about the venture. I planned a champagne bar and Glyndebourne-style picnics, and in the autumn I resigned from several committees and boards.

Camel House Concerts, with half the year lived in Lanzarote, would replace them as a major part of my new life with Ernest.

By November, Paul had signed up the pianists, singers and guitarist who would give the 18 recitals to be held in 2010. And because the artists and agents knew and trusted him, they willingly agreed to come for a fraction of their usual fee.

John was tireless: gathering subscribers, getting the wine sponsored, booking flights, hiring cars, designing the website.

By February 2010, Ernest had at last completed our song cycle, and Catherine Hopper agreed to sing them at a party at my home.

For me, it wasn’t just my birthday party. Privately, I thought of it as a celebration of Ernest and I getting together. I felt we were all but there.

Ernest was at his absolute best. He made a loving, funny speech; his music was tender and passionate and Catherine’s rich, pure voice suited it perfectly. I had a hard time staying dry-eyed.

Ten days later, everything came crashing down. Ernest had gone to Lanzarote to get on with the concert arrangements. I was a little anxious that he’d neglected to get a public performance licence, fix up bank accounts, make the payment for the transport of the piano and so on.

But John, Paul and I were to meet him in Lanzarote at the end of the month to iron out any glitches. And after that we still had a good month before the first concert. When we got there, Ernest was manic, irascible and unreasonable and brushed off all mention of the unfinished car park, the absence of signage, electricity, a platform for the piano, chairs and much besides.

As soon as we were alone, I asked him how his to-do list was coming along. He blew up at once: ‘What list? I’m not answerable to Paul and John. It’s none of their business.’

‘Of course it is. They’re on the committee. We’re all answerable to each other.’

‘No. I’m in charge. I will not be questioned by subordinates.’

The argument ended with me stomping off, intent on going to the airport. But I could not find a list of taxis and my Spanish is non-existent. I was now in tears. John persuaded me to stay.

I had a horrible night, awake and longing for some reconciliation, but too angry and proud to do anything conciliatory. Ernest, oblivious, slept.

In the morning, unwisely, I returned to yesterday’s subject, telling him Paul and John were worried stiff.

‘What business is it of theirs to be worried? They are trying to get control of the concerts away from me. Camel House Concerts is my idea. It’s my property, my building, my money. They have to understand who’s the boss . . .’

Suddenly, I was far more furious than he was. Beside myself with anger, I picked up a chopping board, intending to bang it down hard on a stainless steel surface.

I think I could even have brained Ernest with it; but as I picked it up, I saw it was badly cracked and for some reason I didn’t want it to break.

I put it down, gave him a shove in the chest that made him stagger and, for the second time in 24 hours, slammed out.

ERNEST later said he had never seen such hatred as that on my face when I picked up the board. And, for those few seconds, I did truly hate him.

But is it not ludicrous, too? Even hilarious? A 70-year- old woman and an 80-year-old man quarrelling like 20-year- olds — and then she marching off, pathetically pulling a little wheelie bag behind her. It’s worse than a bad movie.

Paul and John took me to the airport. I was not just walking out on Ernest, but abandoning Lanzarote and my future life. On the plane, I pressed a fistful of sodden tissues to my eyes.

Paul and John quit the next day, unable to cope with Ernest’s behaviour. He was manic for two months, quarrelling with everyone. He stopped taking his drugs, scuppered our plans for events, dismantled the website, decided not to bother with catering and returned the subscriptions.

Once the musicians knew Paul had gone, half quit or demanded their standard fees — too high for fledgling Camel House to pay. But something of the original plan was rescued and the first concerts successfully staged.

By mid-March, I was lonely, raw and miserable.

Out of the blue, Ernest emailed me. ‘Would you like to come with me to see the Grieg Museum in Norway?’ His tone was friendly and businesslike, with no reference to what had happened.

I replied: ‘I’d love to be with you if you’ve returned to the land of the sane. But I can’t just pretend nothing has happened and forgive and forget any more . . .’

He wrote long emails explaining that he no longer wanted to live with a nag who tried to control his life, but rather he was proposing to see me for holidays. ‘If you don’t need me physically, we have no future together,’ he added.

I found all this hugely hurtful, but I toughened up. By the end of April, I’d cleared my house of his possessions. Then, after sinking into the blackest of holes, he came home for treatment. One sunny late May day, I was walking through Hyde Park feeling strong and forgiving. Ernest was staying with his son, Tommy. I scrolled down the names in my phone . . . ‘Hullo, Ernest, it’s me.’

Silence, then: ‘Oh darling, how wonderful to hear your voice. I can’t believe it.’

‘It’s such a lovely day. I thought, how about lunch in the park?’

So I sat in the new Serpentine restaurant and waited, my heart thudding. We had lunch in the sun, drank a bottle of Chenin Blanc and went home to bed. So much for my strength of character.

After that, Ernest was back in my life for a while. But it was not the same. There was between us, unacknowledged by him and never mentioned by me, a channel of slippery rocks and treacherous undercurrents.

I could not love him as before and I no longer wanted to be responsible for him.

By late summer, it was all over. He sold his grand piano and I had to buy from him the great stone trough and a tapestry he’d bought me in France. Divorce, even if you aren’t married, is painful.

But by the time the tithe barn was ready, I was longing to move in. It stands on high ground, with nothing in sight but 360-degree views of open countryside.

When the wind blows, the skies are alive with scudding clouds and the garden grasses dance and sway, melding into the surrounding fields. It’s both dramatic and peaceful. I love it.

EXTRACTED from Relish: My Life On A Plate by Prue Leith (published tomorrow by Quercus, £20). © Prue Leith 2012 & 2017. To order a copy for £16 (20 per cent discount), visit mailshop. co.uk/books or call 0844 571 0640. P&P is free on orders over £15. Offer valid until October 13, 2017.