Surely a Friend Was the Safer Option?

So, where were we?

Three kids.

Two serious relationships down.

A rape I hadn't properly processed.

A neighbour who had terrorised me and my family.

Enough emotional baggage to fill the boot of a car.

And still, somehow, absolutely no fucking clue what was coming next.

By this point, my sons' dad and I had admitted our relationship was over.

And once again, I was trying to work out what life looked like afterwards.

But this time, the next man who came into my life wasn't some random stranger I'd just met.

He was already my friend.

And surely that had to be safer?

Right?

Yeah.

About that.

We Were Friends First

We started texting after things ended between me and my boys' dad.

And it was easy.

That's probably what I liked most about it.

There wasn't that awkward stage where you're sitting across from somebody trying to work out who they are while simultaneously pretending to be the most normal version of yourself.

We already knew each other.

We had loads in common.

We got on brilliantly.

We could talk about anything.

It didn't feel forced.

It just naturally became something more.

And after everything I'd already been through, I remember thinking that maybe this was what I'd been getting wrong.

Maybe the best relationships really did start as friendships.

Maybe instead of meeting somebody and then discovering who they were, being with somebody who already knew me was exactly what I needed.

He knew me.

I knew him.

There was already trust there.

What could possibly go wrong?

I know.

Don't answer that.

For a while, though, I genuinely thought I'd cracked it.

Then other people entered the equation.

Because obviously they fucking did.

His Best Mate's Sister

Now, this gets slightly confusing, so keep up.

His best mate was dating his sister.

But his best mate also had a sister.

And apparently?

She liked my boyfriend. 

One night, he went quiet on me.

I couldn't get hold of him.

And you know that feeling?

When technically you don't know anything is wrong...

but something in your stomach is already telling you:

Something is fucking wrong.

That.

I didn't know what had happened.

Not immediately.

About a week later, the truth came out in a slightly unusual way.

His mate was pissed off.

Basically, he wasn't happy that me and my boyfriend were together instead of his sister being with him.

And he told me I should ask my boyfriend a question.

What exactly had he done that night the week before?

So I did.

I asked him.

And eventually?

He admitted it.

He'd spent the night with his best mate's sister.

There it was.

The first betrayal.

And remember — this wasn't somebody I'd gone into a relationship with knowing nothing about.

This was my friend.

That was part of why it hurt.

I'd thought friendship meant I knew what kind of person I was dealing with.

I'd thought there was already a foundation underneath us.

Apparently the foundation had a fucking trapdoor.

So Obviously I Left Him Forever

Hahahaha.

No.

Of course I didn't.

Have you met younger me?

I forgave him.

I was a soft touch.

I wanted to believe people when they said they were sorry.

I wanted to believe there was a difference between somebody who made a mistake and somebody who was going to keep hurting you.

And most of all?

I wanted relationships to work.

That's a pattern you'll probably have noticed by now.

Something could happen that should have had me packing somebody's belongings into black bags and launching them out the fucking window...

and I'd somehow find myself thinking:

Maybe we can fix this.

So we talked.

He apologised.

And we agreed we'd start again.

Clean slate.

Put it behind us.

Move forward.

And for a while?

That's exactly what it looked like we did.

We Moved In Together

Things got better.

Really good, actually.

We moved in together.

We were building a life.

And then?

We got engaged. 

There I was.

Three children.

A man I'd started out as friends with.

A home.

An engagement.

And after everything I'd already been through, I thought:

Maybe this is my happy ending.

Yes, he'd cheated.

Yes, it had been with his best mate's sister.

And yes, in retrospect that's quite a fucking large footnote to have before the engagement.

But we'd survived it.

I'd forgiven him.

We'd moved forward.

Surely that meant something?

At least, that's what I told myself.

Then another woman entered the story.

The Old Friend

She was an old friend of his.

And when she came back into the picture, things between me and him started changing.

Not dramatically at first.

It wasn't like he walked through the door one afternoon and announced:

Hello, I'm going to start behaving completely differently now.

It was arguments.

Picking fights.

Things suddenly becoming a problem that hadn't been a problem before.

That horrible feeling of somebody creating distance while you're still trying to work out why.

Eventually, after one of our arguments, he went to stay at his mum's.

But this is important:

we were still together.

As far as I was concerned, our relationship wasn't over.

We were engaged.

We had a life together.

He was staying at his mum's because things between us were difficult.

That isn't the same thing as being single.

Then came the day I went to the Forge.

He Was Too Busy at Work

I'd wanted to go to the Forge.

Normally, he would have taken me.

But that day he told me he was too busy at work.

He suggested we could go the following day instead.

Fine.

Except I decided:

Why should I wait?

I could get there myself.

So I got a taxi.

Off I went to the Forge, completely unaware that I was about to receive another educational instalment in:

Things Men Say When They Are Very Obviously Doing Exactly What It Looks Like They're Doing.

I got there.

Went to his mum's stall.

And there he was.

The man who had apparently been too busy at work to take me.

At his mum's stall.

With her.

The old friend.

And before I'd even had enough time to properly process what I was looking at, he came straight over to me.

And said:

"It's not what it looks like." 

Is there any sentence in the English language that means more strongly:

It is absolutely, one hundred percent, exactly what it fucking looks like?

I don't think there is.

Nobody ever says:

"It's not what it looks like!"

when what you're looking at is completely innocent.

You don't walk into Tesco and find your husband choosing potatoes and hear:

"BABE, I CAN EXPLAIN!"

But there I was.

Looking at my fiancé with this woman.

After he'd told me he was too busy at work.

While he was staying at his mum's.

And somehow I was supposed to believe I hadn't seen what I'd just seen.

Then Somehow I Became the Cheat

And this is where things became even more ridiculous.

Because instead of him having to explain himself...

somehow?

I became the bad guy.

He started telling people I'd been cheating on him.

I hadn't.

Completely untrue.

But apparently if you tell a story confidently enough, there will always be somebody willing to believe it.

And that's a horrible position to be in.

Because you're already dealing with the breakdown of your relationship.

You're already wondering what's actually been happening behind your back.

Then suddenly you're also having to defend yourself against something you didn't do.

But I knew the truth.

And eventually?

I'd had enough.

Back Towards Mum and Dad

So once again, I packed up my life.

By this point I should probably have had a fucking loyalty card for starting again.

Move five times and your sixth emotional breakdown is free.

I moved to a house near Mum and Dad.

Back towards my family.

Back towards the people who had caught me before.

Back towards my safety net.

And I started rebuilding.

Again.

At that point, I didn't have absolute proof of what had happened between him and the old friend.

I knew what I'd seen.

I knew how things had changed.

I knew what my gut was telling me.

But he'd accused me of cheating.

And when somebody does that confidently enough, part of you can start questioning yourself.

Had I misunderstood things?

Had there genuinely been nothing happening?

Was I making too much of it?

Then, some time later, somebody showed me something.

A post she'd put online.

Happy One-Year Anniversary!

She was celebrating being with him for one year.

Lovely.

Very romantic.

Congratulations to the happy couple and all that.

There was just one teeny, tiny problem.

The maths.

Because if they'd been together for a year...

then their relationship had started while he was still with me.

While he was still living with me.

While I believed we were engaged.

While I thought we were building a life together.

And suddenly everything made sense.

The arguments.

Moving to his mum's.

The old friend appearing.

The Forge.

Being too busy at work to take me.

"It's not what it looks like."

The accusations that I'd been cheating.

Except I hadn't been the one cheating.

He had.

Funny that.

Because that wouldn't be the last time in my life somebody accused me relentlessly of doing the exact fucking thing they were doing themselves.

I just didn't know that yet.

And Then Something Unexpected Happened

Life carried on.

And eventually?

I started feeling better.

Not overnight.

Heartbreak never works like that.

But gradually.

I had my three kids.

I moved close to Mum and Dad.

My sister was around.

My childhood best friend was around.

And I started going out again.

Properly going out.

The dancing.

The pub.

Nights with my sister and my best friend.

Nights in.

Sunny days sitting in the garden.

Laughing.

Living.

I wore makeup every day.

I was tanned.

I felt good.

I felt like me. 

And that's important.

Because I don't want this story to sound like I simply stumbled from one disastrous relationship straight into another without ever having a life in between.

I did have a life.

And during this period?

I fucking loved it.

My children.

My family.

My sister.

My best friend.

Going out.

Having fun.

Living near Mum and Dad.

For once, there wasn't a man at the centre of everything.

And I started thinking:

Maybe I don't actually need one.

Maybe this was enough.

My kids.

My family.

My friends.

Me. 

And then...

because the universe clearly heard me say that and thought:

Oh really?

I got a Facebook message.

From a profile with possibly one of the most ridiculous names I'd ever seen.

Pinocchio No Strings.

The funny thing?

It wasn't even the first time he'd messaged me.

He'd tried years earlier when I was still engaged.

And I'd knocked him back.

I was engaged.

Whatever else can be said about me, I wasn't interested in starting something with somebody else while I was in a relationship.

But now?

Now I was single.

Happy.

Going out.

Enjoying my life.

And this time, when Pinocchio No Strings appeared in my messages...

I replied. 

And that ridiculous Facebook profile?

That one was going to change my life for the next fifteen years.

Next: Pinocchio No Strings