Even at 50, my husband David is one of those enviably handsome alpha males; a banker with a six-figure salary, chiselled features, full head of thick brown hair and a decent body thanks to all the sport he does.
At the same age, I am firmly in the Mrs Average camp, with a round face, too-large breasts, saddle thighs and a tummy that will never, ever shift thanks to an emergency C-section.
In other words, I am punching above my weight.
David and I have been married for 25 years and during that time I’ve lost count of the number of friends who’ve admitted to having a crush on him. Not to mention the jokey comments about being careful to keep a tight hold of him, lest he be lured away by a far more attractive woman.
As much as I have always hated these barbs, it turns out our cavernous gulf in the looks department has resulted in infidelity. One of us has been having an affair for five years. But it’s not David who’s unfaithful. It’s me.
And what might come as an even bigger surprise is that I’m cheating on him with a far less attractive man. Andy, a mutual friend of ours from university, has thinning grey hair, a pudgy dad-bod and pale white skin that never tans. Even with rose tinted glasses, he could never be considered traditionally handsome. And with a far less impressive salary, he even admits himself that he’s more of a ‘beta male’.
But he’s also one of those rare men who really listens to you when you talk; he doesn’t offer unhelpful ‘solutions’, glaze over, or play with his phone. Oh, and he’s exceptionally good in bed.
More to the point though, with Andy, I’m the more attractive one. And as someone who’s so used to being compared unfavourably with my husband, this is a welcome novelty. Andy often tells me how attractive he finds me and there’s nothing sexier than being made to feel sexy.
Do I feel guilty about betraying David? Sometimes. I realise that the fact that it’s Andy I’m cheating with makes this a double betrayal. After all, the three of us go back over 30 years.
I’d known David in passing since childhood. Our mothers were old friends and we’d say hello to each other at get-togethers over the years. But it was when we both ended up in the same halls of residence at Edinburgh University that I got to know him properly.
Even at 50, my husband David is one of those enviably handsome alpha males. At the same age, I am firmly in the Mrs Average camp, writes Emily Hilton (stock image)
We bonded over our love of John Irving novels and enjoyed watching films together. Despite his looks, David was never a womaniser. He may have been tall with a gorgeous, sports-honed figure, but what I loved about him most was his easy optimism and glass-half-full outlook. Of course I fancied him but I never for one moment thought he could feel the same way about me.
We’d been friends for six months when, after a cinema trip, David invited me back to his room and made a pass at me.
When news spread of us getting together, our friends gushed about how lucky I was to have snared David. As if I’d laid a trap for him. The fuss everyone made was both unsettling and upsetting.
As for Andy, he was David’s roommate and the three of us ended up sharing a house in our second year. Bookish and geeky, Andy had a few short-lived relationships but was often a bit of a third wheel. I always enjoyed his company and he’d often pick me up if I felt down about all the David-related backhanded compliments.
I’ve heard them all over the years, from ‘I bet you don’t let him stray far from home!’ to ‘If you ever get bored of David, you know where to send him.’
Everyone laughs, meaning I’m forced to join in, too. Sometimes I’d inspect my reflection in the mirror, looking for flaws, but although there was plenty I could improve on, I thought to myself, why should I? The worst slight came on our wedding day. Then 25, we married at the village church and had lavish celebrations at a plush hotel overlooking a Cornish beach with 200 guests – including Andy with his latest girlfriend.
Late into the evening, I overheard David’s father say to one of his friends: ‘I’ve always advised my sons to marry down looks-wise. There’s nothing but trouble ahead when you marry a beautiful woman.’
Both men laughed while I silently retreated, utterly stunned.
I looked around for David but he was on the dance floor embroiled in a conga. I rushed to the loos, where I burst into tears. Was that really why David had chosen me? Because I was beneath him looks-wise?
David is a tactile man who has always made me feel loved. But he’s never told me I’m beautiful. He’ll say I look ‘nice’ or compliment my outfit, but he’s far more likely to rave about how clever or funny I am.
I’ve never asked him outright if what his father said was true because I’m scared of what he might say. But I suppose I’ve always feared that David would wake up and realise he could do better than me.
Having this fear hanging over me is a horrible feeling. But we got on with our lives. Our parents clubbed together to provide a healthy deposit for our first home in west London while I took a job in publishing and David chose business banking. He was soon handling accounts with eight-figure turnovers.
Two years later, our son arrived, followed by our daughter two years after that.
David was a fantastic father. But I hated how other mums ogled him at the school gates. At book clubs, after one glass of rosé too many, some would make vulgar remarks
David was a fantastic father. But I hated how other mums ogled him at the school gates. At book clubs, after one glass of rosé too many, some would make vulgar remarks. One woman joked: ‘Never invite me to yours when David’s at home. It would be like letting the dogs out.’
You would think all of this praise might make David rather arrogant. But it hasn’t. If anything when we’re out, he sticks to me like glue. And if a woman is trying to flirt, he is firm with his boundaries.
He appreciates an attractive woman when he sees one, but he’s never had a roving eye or given me cause for concern.
Apart from back in 2014, when he started working with a firm in Manchester, which required him to stay away from home two nights a week for a period of three months. Whenever he returned home, he was distant and snappy with me. For the first time in our marriage I started checking his phone and his emails, worried he was cheating.
More than once he shouted, ‘Why don’t you trust me?’ I told him to imagine how he’d feel if the tables were turned. Even when he said: ‘Of course I wouldn’t cheat on you, I love you!’ I still couldn’t shake off the feeling that one day he would.
I never caught him out, but I still can’t be sure if it was just a case of paranoia or if I was on to something.
Who did I turn to during this turbulent time? Andy, who was then in an off-on relationship, living nearby and working for a lobbying firm. He always managed to talk me down off my metaphorical ledge.
He’d pop over for dinner – David never saw him as a threat – and when I listed my suspicions, he’d insist: ‘David loves you, he’s not like that.’
Five years ago, however, things took a different turn. The children were both at university and David was staying with his mum while his dad received end-of-life care, which meant I spent long periods alone. Andy, who was by then in an ‘unsatisfactory’ long-term relationship, often came over to keep me company.
One evening, after a bit too much wine, I broke down about my father-in-law’s thoughtless comment at our wedding. It really helped when Andy said: ‘David’s dad has always been a bumptious idiot.’
He went on to tell me I was gorgeous, assuring me that David had always thought so, too. For the first time, I found myself flirting with him. It struck me that it was Andy who had always made me laugh and feel good about myself. When I made the move to kiss him, he responded immediately. It was surprisingly exhilarating and made me feel powerful.
We found our way to the guest bedroom, where we ended up having sex. For once, I orgasmed first. As curious as it sounds, when you have sex with someone you aren’t physically intimidated by, you can be yourself. I didn’t care about my cellulite or my wobbly upper arms.
Andy told me he’d been longing for this to happen for years. He made me feel utterly desirable – and that was an addictive feeling.
The following morning, though, I could barely look at him, such was my horror at my actions. How could I do this to David? And our children? Andy was so tender and understanding, offering to leave and say nothing more about it. But as the days went by, I found myself thinking about Andy more and more. And as David travelled back and forth to his parents, we began our affair in earnest.
For the first time, my needs were being put first in the bedroom. And for once it was me on the pedestal. Andy lavished me with praise and attention.
I tell David I’m out for the afternoon with my girlfriends. Instead Andy and I book into a hotel for sex. Far from feeling guilty, I tell myself David is benefiting from my affair, says Emily
He still sends gushing messages overnight for me to read when I wake up. He’ll remind me how ‘hot’ I am – no man has ever said that to me before. It is such a massive boost after years of trailing in David’s wake.
Wrongly or rightly, I haven’t felt a slither of regret. While, as far as I know, David is faithful to me, our marriage has always revolved around him and his requirements (in and out of the bedroom). Although we still have sex, it is nothing compared to the explosive encounters with Andy.
And there is still the burden of our inequality. Part of me always fantasised that as we got older, David would take on his dreaded father’s looks – portly tummy, florid complexion – and all the chat about his attractiveness would recede. Yet he’s more handsome today than he was when we first met.
Meanwhile, I’m succumbing to all the usual signs of ageing: wrinkles, crepey decolletage, stubbornly Rubenesque figure despite regular gym sessions. Not that I’m about to do any tweakments – that’s just not me. David would tell me I don’t need them anyhow and, well, now I have Andy, who is always full of compliments.
Our affair is very much ongoing. We are careful about when we meet up. I’ve instituted a once-a-month rule because any more and I know I couldn’t explain away my whereabouts to David or the children. As it is, I tell David I’m out for the afternoon with my girlfriends. Instead Andy and I book into a hotel for sex.
I know David would be utterly blindsided if he ever found out, but there’s no way he’d suspect me of cheating.
Far from feeling guilty, I tell myself David is benefiting from my affair. I’m less reserved with him in the bedroom now I’ve learned to prioritise my own needs. And I’m far happier, too, so no longer moan about him prioritising his leisure activities at the weekend or the fact he spends every other Sunday with his mother.
As for Andy, he is of course sworn to secrecy. We still get together once a month with our group of university friends. If anyone ever discovered our secret, all hell would break loose.
Do I ever entertain thoughts of leaving David for Andy? Absolutely not. I’ve been firm with Andy that I’m never leaving David; I love the affluent lifestyle he provides too much, and Andy says he understands.
Now we’re all 50, David still turns heads, but whenever women make the same old comments about how lucky I am, I allow myself a smug smile. After all, it’s me who’s having the last laugh. And I’m loving every minute of it.
Emily Hilton is a pseudonym. Names have been changed to protect identities.
As told to Samantha Brick
