Im 42 now and married to the woman who, once upon a time, was simply my best mate since we were both gawky, opinionated 14-year-olds. We met at schoolno violins, no heart-eyes, not even the ghost of a spark. We were just two kids who happened to plonk down at the same desk and soon found ourselves attached at the hip, for reasons I struggle to remember besides proximity and shared contempt for school dinners.
From the get-go, it was pure platonic gold: homework, lunch breaks, ridiculous secrets, whispered complaints about PE teachers. I knew all about her dodgy boyfriends with questionable haircuts, and she heard every detail about my ill-advised crushes. Not a peck, not the faintest hint, nothing remotely suggestive ever happened between us. We were textbook best friends.
As our teenage years flopped over into adulthood, life naturally pulled us in different directions. I headed off to university in Manchester at 19; she stayed behind in Birmingham. At 21, I fumbled my way into my first serious relationship (serious in the way flat-pack furniture is serious), and then got married at 24. She turned up at my wedding and sat next to my family, all smiles, while happily settled with her partner. Through it all, we kept calling each other, swapping woes, asking advice, just checking in.
That first marriage of mine staggered on for nearly six years. Outwardly, everything looked tickety-boo, but inside it was all tense silences, bickering about the washing up, and miles of emotional distance. My best friend knew the lot: when we started sleeping in separate rooms, when the conversations dried up, when I felt lonelier than ever despite not living alone. Never a nasty word from her about my wifeshe just listened, bless her. Round about this time, she also ended a long-term relationship, spending a few years fiercely climbing the career ladder and, I suspect, binge-watching crime dramas.
The divorce, when it finally arrived at the ripe age of 32, was a marathon of lawyers, tears, and endless cups of builders tea. I got a flat all to myself and started again. She was the main one who stuck by me: trawling round estate agents, assembling ghastly IKEA furniture, and doing takeaway dinners so I wouldn’t stew in my own misery. We still called ourselves just friends, but something began shifting: slightly-too-long silences, meaningful looks, flashes of jealousy neither of us dared mention.
At 33, one evening after shepherds pie in my flat, it hit meI didnt want her to go home. Nothing physical happened (dont get excited). No sudden embrace, no cinematic kiss. Just a long, sleepless night spent wrestling with the realisation that she wasnt just my friend any more. A few days on, she confessed to feeling the samelisting all the tiny stabs of envy and odd pangs she’d shrugged off when I dated other women, starting to wonder when it all changed.
It took us almost a year to come to terms with the shift. In classic British style, we both carried on valiantly dating other people while trying (and failing) to prove the whole thing was just an overcooked friendship. We always ended up back in the same cafe, nattering, always comparing everything and everyone to what we had. By 35, we admitted defeat and gave it a shot. Awkward at first, of coursetrying to flip two decades of mateship into romance had us both bracing for disaster. What if it flopped? Would we lose everything?
Two years later, we agreedno fuss, no country manors or novelty ice sculptures. Just a quiet, very grown-up decisionI was 37, she was 36. Neighbours and family shrugged: Well, obviously! You two have always been made for each other. Which made us laugh, because honestly, wed never twigged. Wed been friends for over twenty years, never crossed a line, not even in our worst what if moments. Turns out, love isnt always lying in wait. Sometimes, you have to go round the houses, make a few wrong turns, before you spot it.
So here we are, years down the linemarried, relatively sane, nothing flashy but absolutely solid. We know each other inside out: how we row, how we sulk, how we apologise by making tea. Sometimes I think if I hadn’t gone through the mess of divorce, Id never have noticed what I had right in front of me. I didnt marry my best friend for convenience. I married her because, after everything, she was the only person in the world with whom I could always be exactly myselfno performance, no acting, just us.
