Marriages rocked (p2)

You know when you hear true stories that are so gobsmackingly dramatic you can’t help writing them down?  Like an irresistibly hot, freshly baked roll.  Sort of..


Well anyway, here’s an ethically questionable sequel to this post from July about a friend’s flailing marriage, tragically all factual (besides names and locations).



I knew it had to be the end for us and our marriage.  It had become too much.  We were barely speaking, Claire suspected and so I was sleeping on the sofa, still completely crazy about Flic, who said she was going to leave her husband.

First I had August to get through.  An August which I’d spend mostly in America, partly on business and partly on what should have been pleasure.  Except it never looked like being pleasure, not really; not with how we were with each other at the time and what we both knew was about to happen.  And so it turned out.

The night before the wedding in New York, Claire discovered a half written note on my iPhone, which I’d forgotten to copy/paste over into my email.  The night of the wedding we badly pretended to everyone around us.  It wasn’t much fun for her, her best friend’s wedding.  I spoiled it, ruined her life.  The next day I drove back, deposited the hire car at the airport and flew back to London.  Claire stayed and went onto California alone, like we’d planned to.  The in-flight romantic comedies didn’t help.

I went back to work, sad but sure I’d made the right decision for me.  I was still nuts about Flic, and not so crazy about Claire.  These things happen, don’t they?  I’d always be the villain, but what are you going to do?  Sit tight in a jaded young marriage and allow someone who has turned your life upside down to just walk away?  The thing was Claire had told her friends back home to tell Flic’s husband, which they did.  He was understandably upset, read a load of her emails, discovered bad stuff and she had to move out.

And I moved out too.  We stayed with random friends, sometimes together, sometimes apart, she took a break to Egypt to clear her head for a while, without me.   When she returned I managed to persuade her to share a room, as much for financial reasons.  That’s for the last few months of the time she’s in the UK, before moving back to America.

We found a small, dingey, ex-council flat in the middle of Camden: a brilliant location if nothing else.  It wasn’t all bad.

But then something happened which was unequivocally ALL bad.  Flic’s husband didn’t wake up on Monday morning.  His friend found him later in the day and they still don’t know what happened.  His family are on the way over here now.

I feel so sorry for Flic, for her husband and his family.  Is it all my fault?  How should I react?  At school they don’t teach you what to say to your girlfriend when her husband tragically passes away: a bloke she was still living with only a month before, a bloke who you basically fucked over.


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