Today, my ex-boyfriend called me on my birthday for an annual catch-up, or as I see it, his annual chance to rub my nose in it.
I really enjoy hearing all the news about your family: your son’s progress in college; his older brother’s endless search for love.
But when he moves on to his wife’s latest, expensive hobby (most recently, tennis lessons), there’s more than a hint of envy. After all, because she married a man with great inherited wealth, she has no need to work and can pay other people to do the monotonous household chores that we burden the rest of us with.
When my ex, Andrew, tells me about his ski vacation in Verbier and the month they spent in Tuscany last summer, I’m seething with jealousy.
We took endless trips when we went out, occasionally hopping on a plane for a last-minute sunbath in Europe or an adventure in the Far East. Nowadays, for me it’s always a fortnight in a holiday let in Cornwall with my husband and our teenage children, often accompanied by one of their friends. So as I hang up the phone, I can’t help but think about what could have been if we hadn’t ended our relationship 25 years ago.
Andrew was my safe, reliable, and spectacularly well-off boyfriend for six years, from my teens to my early 20s. I left him ruthlessly for Mark, a bit of a work scoundrel whom I married and had two children with.
A classic case of choosing lust over lifestyle. The decision, I now realize, of a young woman who has not yet realized the overwhelming cost of childcare or grimacing as she opens a utility bill.
Why do I keep taking Andrew’s calls if they make me question everything like this?
On dark days I wonder what it would be like to be Andrew’s wife, writes Joan Smyth (archive image)
At first, I admit I saw it as an insurance policy, a backup plan in case something went wrong with Mark. Nowadays, it’s more for ego boosting, because I’m sure it still holds a little torch for me.
My husband knows we keep in touch, but he doesn’t see Andrew as a threat. They met only once, when Andrew was still my partner and Mark my side.
Andrew and I grew up in the same rural community. He was the youngest son of the richest family in our town and worked for the family business, helping to manage their portfolio of successful companies.
He was the first boy who flirted with me and we started dating when I was 16, when I was a waitress at a local cafe. His mother introduced me to her friends as “Andrew’s little hometown sweetheart,” as if I were some poor waif the family had taken pity on.
I don’t think she wanted to be bad; She was a charming and generous woman, although a bit snobbish.
They lived in a huge country house with a swimming pool, huge grounds and tennis courts. When he handed Andrew and me the keys to his annex five years later, he made me feel like an integral part of the family.
Our relationship was sweet and healthy. We spent weekends walking his parents’ dogs to country pubs for hearty lunches. Andrew was quiet, modest and, yes, a little boring.
Then, after six years together, naughty, sexy, exciting Mark arrived and suddenly my cozy life seemed very boring. I started working as a copywriter at an advertising agency and Mark was the bad boy in the office.
He was the opposite of Andrew in every way, from how he handled money (badly) to his approach to fidelity (just don’t get caught up) to his thoughts on eventually settling down (no thanks).
It all played out a bit like Jilly Cooper’s Horsemen, but in reverse, with me falling in love with the poor man instead of the rich man.
Mark’s eyes met mine the first day I walked into the office. He was a couple of years up the career ladder and I liked him right away.
Within a month, I was secretly meeting him for drinks after work even though I knew he had a girlfriend, and I wasn’t the only colleague on his dating list.
This wasn’t like me. I always saw myself as loyal and reserved and felt terribly guilty. Andrew made me feel cared for; He bought me a sports car and never let me pay for anything.
Our sex life seemed good to me, although neither of us had any previous experience to compare it to. But Mark brought out something in me that I had never felt before: pure lust.
He was a blonde with curly hair, tall and good looking. The fact that he could have any girl he wanted was a big part of the attraction.
His background was also much closer to mine: middle class, but far from rich. Even more enticing was the fact that, after a couple of months, Mark dumped his girlfriend and urged me to leave Andrew to move in with him.
By then we were already sleeping together and the sex was so amazingly good that I said yes. While I was packing my things, Andrew got down on one knee and, crying, proposed on the spot. He was too selfish and too in love to feel anything but pity.
Meanwhile, Mark made me laugh until I cried. We went clubbing and wasted our money on nights out and vacations we couldn’t afford. As lovely as it would have been to have Andrew treat me in everything, splitting the bills with Mark made me feel like his equal.
Almost a year after I left him, Andrew called me on the phone at work. His voice cracked as he launched into a well-rehearsed speech. He said he had meant it when he proposed to me; that he still loved me. ‘Will you marry me?’ asked. “We could be happy again.”
I started crying and reminded him that I was with someone else.
A year later, he called again and asked the same question. I didn’t cry but I still said no.
His last attempt, a year later, got a different response. I told him that Mark had proposed to me and that the wedding would be in a couple of months. It must have half killed him to congratulate me, but he did.
As I parked outside the church on my big day, I caught a glimpse of Andrew in the garden of the pub opposite. But the only thing I felt was for everything I had put him through.
I didn’t hear from Andrew again until a couple of years later, when he called me to tell me he’d met someone, that he was happy again, and that he hoped life would be good for me, too. After that, our catch-up on my birthday every January became an annual event.
Andrew’s parents are already dead. He inherited a fortune and has earned much more on his own. Sometimes I wonder if his wife is happy or bored.
Life with Mark has never been boring. Yes, we’ve wasted a lot more than we’ve saved, but we still laugh together. However, on days when life’s financial pressures press in, I can’t help but imagine the alternative: that sliding doors moment I had when I chose Mark over Andrew.
On the dark days, I wonder what it would be like to be Andrew’s wife. All those vacations, a beautiful house, privately educated children, and work are completely optional. I’ve even hung up and thought: ‘What was I thinking? I married the wrong man!’
“Call him again,” says the devil on my shoulder. ‘It’s never too late…’
I never do it. I remind myself that these thoughts will fade as the year progresses, until Andrew calls again next January.
All names have been changed to protect identities.