Today my ex-boyfriend called me on my birthday for our annual catch-up – or, as I see it, his yearly opportunity to rub my nose in it.
I genuinely enjoy hearing all his family news: his kid’s progress at university; his older brother’s endless quest for love.
But when he moves on to his wife’s latest expensive hobby (most recently tennis lessons), there’s more than a flicker of envy. After all, thanks to marrying a man with vast inherited wealth, she has no need to work and can pay other people to carry out the domestic drudgery the rest of us are lumbered with.
By the time my ex, Andrew, is talking me through their skiing holiday in Verbier and the month they spent in Tuscany last summer, I’m seething with jealousy.
We went on endless trips when we dated, for ever jumping on a plane for last-minute sun in Europe or a Far East adventure. These days, for me it’s always a fortnight in a Cornish holiday let with my husband and our teenage sons, often with one of their girlfriends in tow. So, as I put the phone down, I can’t help but think about what might have been had I not ended our relationship 25 years ago.
Andrew was my safe, dependable – and spectacularly well-off – boyfriend for six years, from my teens into my early 20s. I rather heartlessly ditched him for Mark, a bit of a cad from work whom I went on to marry and have two children with.
A classic case of choosing lust over lifestyle. The decision, I now realise, of a young woman yet to realise the crippling cost of childcare or wince as she opened a utility bill.
Why do I persist in taking Andrew’s calls if they make me question everything like this?
In the early days, I admit I saw him as an insurance policy – a back-up plan if it went wrong with Mark. These days, it’s more for the ego boost, because I’m sure he still holds a small torch for me.
My husband knows we keep in touch, but doesn’t see Andrew as a threat. They met only once, back when Andrew was still my partner and Mark my bit on the side.
Andrew and I grew up in the same rural community. He was the youngest son of the richest family in our village and worked for the family business, helping to run their portfolio of successful companies.
He was the first boy ever to flirt with me, and we started dating at 16 when I was a waitress in the local cafe. His mother introduced me to her friends as ‘Andrew’s little girlfriend from the village’, as though I was some poor waif the family had taken pity on.
I don’t think she meant to be mean – she was a lovely, generous woman, just a bit snobby.
They lived in an enormous country house with a pool, huge grounds and tennis courts. By the time she handed Andrew and me the keys to their annexe five years later, she’d made me feel an integral part of the family.
Our relationship was sweet and wholesome. We spent our weekends walking his parents’ dogs to country pubs for hearty lunches. Andrew was quiet, unassuming and, yes, a bit boring.
Then, after six years together, along came naughty, sexy, exciting Mark and suddenly my cosy life seemed very dull indeed. I’d started working as a copywriter in an advertising agency and Mark was the office bad boy.
He was Andrew’s opposite in every way, from how he handled money (badly) to his approach to fidelity (just don’t get caught) and his thoughts on eventually settling down (no thanks).
It all played out a bit like Jilly Cooper’s Riders, but in reverse, with me falling for the poor guy instead of the rich one.
Mark’s eyes locked with mine the first day I walked into the office. He was a couple of years higher up the career ladder and I fancied him immediately.
Within a month I was secretly meeting him for drinks after work despite knowing he had a girlfriend – and I wasn’t the only colleague on his tryst list.
This wasn’t like me. I always saw myself as loyal and reserved and felt dreadfully guilty. Andrew made me feel cared for; he bought me a sports car and never let me pay for anything.
Our sex life seemed fine to me, although neither of us had any previous experience to compare it with. But Mark brought something out in me I’d never felt before – sheer lust.
He was a curly-haired blond, tall and good-looking. The fact he could have any girl he liked was a big part of the attraction.
His background was also much closer to mine: middle-class, but far from wealthy. Even more seductive 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 sleeping together, and the sex was so astonishingly good I said yes. As I packed my things, Andrew dropped to one knee and, weeping, proposed on the spot. I was too selfish and smitten to feel anything but pity.
Meanwhile, Mark made me laugh until I cried. We went clubbing and blew our money on nights out and holidays we couldn’t afford. Lovely as it had been to be treated to everything by Andrew, splitting bills with Mark made me feel his equal.
Almost a year after I left him, Andrew phoned me at work. His voice cracked as he launched into a well-rehearsed speech. He said he’d meant it when he proposed to me; that he still loved me. ‘Will you marry me?’ he asked. ‘We could be happy again.’
I burst out crying and reminded him I was with someone else.
A year later, he called again, posing the same question. I didn’t cry but still said no.
His last attempt, a year on, got a different response. I told him Mark had proposed and the wedding was in a couple of months. It must have half-killed him to congratulate me, but he did.
As I pulled up outside the church on my big day, I glimpsed Andrew in the pub garden opposite. But the only regrets I felt were for all I’d put him through.
I didn’t hear from Andrew again until a couple of years later when he called to say he’d met someone, was happy again and that he hoped life was good for me, too. After that, our catch-up on my birthday each January became an annual event.
Andrew’s parents are both dead now. He inherited a fortune and has made plenty more on his own. I do sometimes wonder if his wife is happy or bored.
Life with Mark has never been dull. Yes, we’ve squandered far more than we’ve saved, but we still laugh together. Yet on the days when life’s financial pressures bear down on me, I can’t help but picture the alternative: that sliding doors moment I had when I chose Mark over Andrew.
On dark days, I wonder what it would be like to be Andrew’s wife. All those holidays, a beautiful home, privately educated children and work being entirely optional. I have even hung up and thought: ‘What was I thinking? I married the wrong guy!’
‘Call him back,’ says the devil on my shoulder. ‘It’s never too late…’
I never do. I remind myself that these thoughts will fade as the year progresses – until Andrew phones again next January.
All names have been changed to protect identities.
