Hubby’s affair exposed
Counting down the seconds to midnight, I felt like I was being watched. ‘5, 4, 3, 2...’ the DJ shouted across the dance floor.
And as we rang in 1993, I spotted the tall, handsome stranger whose eyes were fixed on me.
Ricky Jackson, 17. ‘Happy New Year!’ he smiled.
Ricky was four years younger than me – and a foot taller. Not my usual type. But once we got chatting, I found he was charming and ambitious. Plus, we had the same sense of humour.
Swept up in a whirlwind romance, I fell head over heels in love.
And things moved quickly for us.
Within a year, our first son was born. Four years later, we had another little boy.
Ricky was a natural,
teaching the boys to ride their bikes, cheering them on from the sidelines at football games.
Nothing made me happier than seeing my lads together.
Splashing in the paddling pool, playing at the park, holidaying abroad.
Family life gave me the greatest joy.
Ricky and I married in August 2000, with our sons as pageboys.
‘Till death do us part,’ Ricky vowed
I believed we’d be together forever.
By then, Ricky had set up his own business fitting kitchens. It was his dream, and working for himself meant that he could fit jobs around family life.
He’d arrive home from work full of chatter about his clients. Raving about his latest worktop installation. Only, in the summer of 2010, the same client kept coming up.
‘She’s got loads of money,’ he told me.
Pleased he was doing well, I brushed off any suspicions.
But he kept making comments about this woman, and it niggled.
‘I think she’s had a boob job,’ he said one day.
So I asked him if she was attractive.
‘She’s not bad looking,’ he shrugged.
It was beginning to grate on me, and he’d started working late a lot, too.
You’re being paranoid,
I told myself, pushing my worries aside.
In January 2011, we went to India to celebrate my 40th birthday.
But while there, Ricky was constantly glued to his phone. On the beach, in restaurants…
One night, when he nipped to the loo during dinner, my suspicions got the better of me.
Swiping his phone, I went straight to his messages. Miss you, love you, one read. My heart sank.
Only, they looked to be from a mate called Ben.
Strange.
‘What are these messages?’ I asked when Ricky returned.
‘Nothing, you’re being paranoid,’ he snapped,
snatching his phone back.
I didn’t want to ruin our holiday or make a scene in the restaurant.
So, somehow, I managed to bite my tongue.
Back home, Ricky went straight back to work.
‘Those kitchens won’t fit themselves,’ he laughed, picking up his toolkit and kissing me on the cheek.
Doubtful, I couldn’t get those odd messages out my mind.
I’d sneakily managed to save ‘Ben’s’ number in my own phone while we were away.
I need answers, once and for all, I thought.
So, one afternoon, I called it. With every ring, my heart thumped quicker.
No answer.
So I left a voicemail. ‘This is Ricky’s wife, please ring me back,’ I said.
A week passed, and
I heard nothing. Meanwhile, things between Ricky and I were tense – when he was there.
Then, one day when I was at home, my phone trilled.
Seeing Ben flash on my caller ID, I felt a nervous knot tighten in my stomach.
‘Hello,’ a woman said as I answered.
I immediately knew it was that client Ricky couldn’t stop talking about.
‘I know what’s going on!’ I raged.
I thought she’d deny everything – but she was all too happy to dish the dirt.
She admitted they’d met when he’d fitted her kitchen.
‘We’ve been together for two years,’ she bragged. Two years!
Bile rose in my throat as I hung up, both furious and heartbroken.
‘Two years?!’ I screamed at Ricky when he got home later.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He tried to find excuses, but there was nothing he could say.
‘Get out!’ I yelled. For the next few months, he begged for my forgiveness. Promised he’d never hurt me again. Foolishly, I took him back – I was desperate to keep our family together, and I didn’t want to throw away 18 years of happiness.
We limped along for several more years, both of us desperately trying to make it work. But I just couldn’t move on, couldn’t forgive or forget Ricky’s betrayal. Every time he said he was working late, out with his mates, or visiting his dad in Spain, my suspicions came flooding back. I’d scour his e-mails looking for clues that he was cheating on me again.
Ricky would always protest his innocence. ‘There’s no-one else,’ he promised.
But the truth was, I couldn’t trust him.
So we split for good. I was still utterly heartbroken. We’d been married for two decades. There were days I didn’t want to get out of bed, days I wanted to sob for hours.
But, somehow,
I managed to get through it.
We’re divorced now
– on the grounds of Ricky’s infidelity.
Ricky is with someone else – good luck to her.
As for me, it’s taken a while to come to terms with everything, but I’m enjoying single life. I finally see I don’t need a man to make me happy. Especially a man like Ricky.
He’d rave about his latest worktop installation