Dropping off my youngest daughter Emi at a seventh birthday party at a riding stables in South London, I knew I should join the other mums waiting loyally on the sidelines.
But Eliot had recently moved into a flat of his own – much better than the small room he’d had in his previous flat share – and his new place wasn’t far from the stables.
So while the other mums watched their little girls plod round and round, I made my excuses to the mother of the birthday girl, gave Emi’s pony a quick pat and leapt in my car, sexy lingerie rustling under my sensible trousers, and sped over there.
While I’d spent the previous night wrapping up Emi’s friend’s present and getting an early night, 28-year-old Eliot had gone clubbing with his mates, only getting home at 4am. I knew this because I’d waited for his messages all night, in the kind of agony that I despised myself for.
My heart beat harder as he answered the door in baggy shorts and T-shirt
My therapist identified this as the ‘second arrow’; as well as having the painful feeling, I judged myself harshly for being in so much pain. It was, sadly for me, a common phenomenon in my relationship with Eliot; I was crazy about him, while telling myself off for being so teenagerish at 49.
That particular evening, I had imagined him meeting someone his own age all night, and by the time I read Emi her bedtime story I was convinced he was making out with a new young crush in the smoking area. Eliot and I had first met in a similar situation, after all.
But what did I expect? The relationship was sure to end eventually, I told myself strictly. Better it end tonight; I could deal with it. I had dealt with much worse.
Yet no matter how severely I spoke to myself, the flood of relief when I woke the next morning to a series of texts from Eliot telling me how much he loved and missed me, showed me I had a long way to go.
My heart beat harder as he answered the door, wearing his usual baggy shorts and black T-shirt.
His face was puffy from the night before, but at his age he could pull off any hangover.
I never got used to that first jolt of seeing him, watching his bum as he climbed the stairs, admiring the breadth of his shoulders filling the narrow corridor.
In his flat I stood awkwardly at the kitchen counter; those first few moments were always awkward. I pretended to contemplate a cup of tea, until he came to kiss me, pushing his hips against me.
I pressed my palm into the back of his neck, while with the other hand I pulled his hips even closer. I could feel how excited he was already.
‘I want you,’ he said.
I had just 30 minutes to spare, and we both knew it. It was both heartbreaking – and unbelievably hot.
What followed was as unlike married sex as it was possible to be. We went quickly to the bedroom, him pulling down the blinds halfway.
I felt dizzy with anticipation. I didn’t have time to arrange myself sexily on the bed; he came to me and we tumbled backwards together.
My sexy lingerie was pulled off with barely a glance and in another second we were naked. When I touched him he groaned.
It was incredible that he wanted me so much – as much as I wanted him.
We had sex quickly – but not too quickly; him on top, me on top. I tried to inhale him, to remember just how his hand grabbed me, the feel of his lips. The urgency made me orgasm fast and hard, but afterwards, as we lay together in a sweaty heap, the same urgency made my heart burn with anguish.
I looked at my phone; I had less than five minutes before I had to be back in the car. No post-coital cuddles, just a brutal disentanglement and sad music plugged into the stereo as I drove away.
Could it be possible that I was addicted to this pain, this burning heart? I’d read somewhere that satisfaction is the death of desire – a bit depressing. I had the desire part alright, but unlike the other mothers, I didn’t have the satisfaction of a partner to help Emi down off her pony, or to help me cook dinner for the kids. No one to wake up with the next day. That was the bargain I seemed to have made.
My married friends envied my sex life, but sometimes I envied their cosy Saturday nights watching TV, not checking their phone obsessively, because their husbands were right there.
- Annabel Bond is a pseudonym. Names have been changed
