"This is what it's really like being the 'Other Woman' - and it's nothing like you'd imagine"

I’m standing on a beach in front of the holy island of Lindisfarne – where sinners have made pilgrimage to for centuries – listening to the haunting call of grey seals. According to folklore, these are really the cries of selkies: seal-like creatures who walk on land as beautiful women, leading men to their downfall. If this were a mythological tale – I would be a selkie. Because, at this point in my life, I am ‘The Other Woman.’

I probably don’t look like what you’d expect in a mistress: barefoot in muddy walking trousers, no makeup and a sweat-stained t-shirt. I always thought the other woman was a glamorous femme fatale, ruthless and calculating. I never thought it would be me. In fact, I was adamantly against affairs as, in my early teens before my mum died, there was a question mark over her fidelity. My dad had a breakdown, and I suspected she started seeing someone else. At the time, even just the thought made me despise her. Yet as an adult, I became everything I’d hated.

A chance meeting

I wasn't looking for an affair when I met the man I’ll call ‘The Scientist’, as there are some details I can't share, to protect the privacy of those involved. I’d recently come out of a series of tumultuous relationships which had left me with an eating disorder and depression. I’d started therapy and was slowly finding my feet as a single woman. I felt strong, independent and in control.

The relationship began innocently at a work event. We laughed a lot, swapped business cards and, a few weeks later, he emailed to ask me for a drink. We moaned about work, but it soon became clear there was a deeper attraction. He never mentioned a partner, wife or children and, as he began flirting, I naturally assumed he was single.

As a travel writer, I’m often out of the country for weeks at a time. He too travelled for work, and we lived on opposite sides of London. I knew our meetings would never be regular, but soon we were texting every day. Our exchanges grew increasingly flirtatious and, after several weeks, he sent me a nude photo and asked for one in return. It made me feel special and I’d blush when an inappropriate message pinged on my phone. I didn’t tell friends I was speaking to him. I was guarded, careful not to imply anything more was going on until we had met again.

So a couple of months passed by after our first drink, with both of us busily working, until, by chance, we were invited to the same event. Finally, we were going to be in the same place at the same time, and we arranged that he’d come to my house afterwards. We were both excited and the drive home was filled with tension.

We had a glass of wine before he kissed me. Then he asked me to stand naked while he inspected me as though I was a specimen he was conducting research on. He liked to describe parts of my body as though analysing them in a laboratory. He told me that he was allowed to touch me, but I wasn’t allowed to touch him. I thought he was being different and exciting but, looking back, this was the first red flag, and I should have recognised the control he would begin to take from me.

But I didn't, and so our intimate encounters continued whenever we were both in the UK and, between meet-ups, we’d video call and talk about our hopes, families, and ambitions. In my mind, we’d begun a relationship so, at first, I excused the times he’d cancel last minute. But I began to be notice he rarely wanted to meet in public, preferring my house. If I called, it would go to voicemail and he’d phone back when it suited him. If I brought up my concerns, he’d make fun of me for worrying too much. Gradually, after five months together, our relationship went from feeling special to feeling sordid, as I became increasingly suspicious he was hiding something.

‘Are you certain he’s not married? Or has kids?’ asked my counsellor. ‘He definitely doesn’t have children and he isn’t married – I have asked around,’ I said. ‘Although I do wonder if he’s in a relationship.’ As soon as those words left my mouth her body language changed. She was disapproving and judging, I could see it written all over her face. To her I was ‘The Other Woman’. But what could I do? I had no proof, and whenever I tried to broach conversations around previous relationships he clammed up. Besides, he was like a drug I couldn’t give up.

The revelation

Then, about a month later, I was at a networking event in London while he was away and supposedly uncontactable. I was chatting to colleagues who began discussing a woman I vaguely knew, when they described her as The Scientist’s partner. I felt my stomach lurch. Apparently they’d been together for years and even lived together. ‘You must be mistaken,’ I said as nonchalantly as I could. ‘Absolutely not,’ came the reply. The conversation continued but all I heard was a distorted din. I excused myself and promptly ran into a toilet cubicle and threw up.

My mind was racing, and I recalled the start of our affair when he’d called me the wrong name on text and then claimed it was a joke. More recently, he’d said my texts were no longer getting through, so we’d switched to another messaging service, before email only. Our visits were always slotted in specific timeframes with spurious reasons for him cutting things short. He’d twist my attempts to pin down meet-ups into ‘neediness’ and somehow, I’d end up apologising. Now, it all made sense. I wanted to confront him in person to see his reaction so, as soon as he returned from his trip, I told him what I’d heard. He assured me I was wrong, that she was his ex and they were going through the process of separating their lives and home, but I knew he was lying.

I had become The Other Woman. I knew what I should do, but I couldn’t leave. I was caught in a web of lust, yearning, deceit and pride and he gave me hope that we could still work out. He said the situation was complicated with his ‘ex’ now, but soon he could focus on what was next for us. So, I let him spin yarns for me over months and months, watching him tangle up excuses about leaving early or ending our calls. He wasn’t active on social media, but I found his girlfriend’s account and saw a photo of them enjoying a meal together, posted at the same time he’d messaged to say he was looking at nude photo of me.

The danger was part of the thrill for him, but I oscillated between guilt and anger. I felt awful for his partner but didn’t feel like it was my place to say anything. I suspected I probably wasn't the first he'd strayed with and hoped she really would become his 'ex', so I would never need to anyway. I falsely convinced myself I still had some control in the relationship, but it was all on his terms. My self-esteem was at rock bottom and I was completely isolated. I’d seen the look on my counsellor’s face when I told her my suspicions, so I never told my friends or family about the relationship. What would they think of me if they knew what I’d become?

Finding resolve

Our final meeting was a secret tryst in a London hotel. Despite it being nearly midnight, he made me leave in the early hours for yet another convoluted reason despite me telling him I would miss my last train. I spent several cold hours at Paddington Station feeling like a whore and a fool, waiting for the early morning service. He never checked I made it home.

A few days later, I stood on that beach, in front of the island where sinners take pilgrimage, and received a text from a colleague. The Scientist had interfered with a work contract, bad mouthing me and putting his girlfriend up for it instead. Now, he’d crossed the line into my ‘real’ life. I emailed to confront him but he replied with his usual denial. I knew then the time had come. I blocked him and we haven’t had any contact since.

For the following three months I was consumed by shame and sadness, intending to take my secret to the grave. Then, one evening, I finally asked my dad about my mum’s suspected affair. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But I would have understood. I wasn’t the same person after my breakdown. She deserved to be happy.’ That shifted something in me. It made me realise that we’re all imperfect – and that’s ok. I looked at my mum’s potential actions with compassion and, most importantly, changed the way I viewed myself. I opened up to a friend who, instead of judging, hugged me and said they were sorry I’d felt I had to go through that alone. Last year I even wrote a memoir detailing the affair and the effects it had on me. The response was overwhelming - from women on both sides of similar situations. Infidelity is so much more common than I’d realised.

The reality is that ‘The Other Woman’ is not a mythological creature – she is just another woman. She has feelings, a history, an imperfect life and is likely lied to as much as the partner of the man who deceives them both. She is your neighbour, the mum on the school run, your friend, your mother - or maybe even you.

Wayfarer: Love, Loss and Life on Britain’s Pilgrim Paths by Phoebe Smith (HarperNorth) is out now.