Eighteen months ago, I left my marriage to an old-Etonian journalist. We had met on a blind date, he proposed soon afterwards on a weekend mini-break, and, nine months later, we walked up the aisle. Our marital bliss lasted just over a year.
I knew six months beforehand that I would leave my husband, but kept praying for a lightning bolt of recognition that it would work out in the end. Not because I loved him, but because I couldn't stomach the shame.
The worst of it is that I knew on my honeymoon that I had made a mistake. I hadn't married my soul mate and I was deeply disappointed - with myself. I'll never forget sitting on the chair-lift in the ski resort of Telluride, Colorado, a few days after I had made my vows.
My 36-year-old husband affectionately patted my arm with a bulky mitt and I felt my eyes water. Not with joy, but with despair.
I wasn't high on hope and expectation. I was aching with loneliness. Can you imagine feeling lonely on your honeymoon, the very place where you are supposed to feel at one?
I didn't feel united, just full of self-reproach.
What do you say to your parents when you creep back home after the shouting is over? "You know that sixty grand you splashed out for the wedding of my dreams?
Well, erm, it turns out I didn't marry the man of my dreams. Sorry."
A friend said to me a few months into the marriage that if I had got hitched in a register office, I would have left by then. But after the brouhaha of the church wedding and swanky reception, which, let's face it, I had dreamed about since I was six, I felt that I owed it to the 130 guests to try to make it to our first anniversary, at least. Perhaps I dragged out the inevitable because I couldn't face myself.
Stupid
I couldn't admit that I had been that stupid. I am an Oxford graduate, for God's sake, but I was so hung up on the fairytale wedding that, because I was the wrong side of 30, I rushed up the aisle with a man who, deep down, I knew wasn't the man.
Most of the time, back in our marital home, a tiny, to-die-for Kensington abode, I wanted to die.
I was insanely unhappy and, quite frankly, bonkers. Unable to reach my husband or to have him emotionally touch me, I became manic in my desire to perfect our property. I can see now that my deranged need for order was my way of trying to compensate for my inner turmoil.
It is not a sin to be incompatible (foolishly we didn't live together before we married due to my overblown romanticism and downright naivete), but I could not accept that our dreams and aspirations lay in different directions.
I had the flat feng shuied to death, placed pink crystals in our relationship area and planted red geraniums for good fortune. At the hint of a row, I lit joss sticks to waft away the negativity.
And still no dice.
We grew increasingly hostile towards each other, and as we tossed insults like verbal hand grenades, I realised that I no longer liked what I saw of myself reflected in his eyes.
I have faced newspaper editors hyperventilating with rage, broken bread with the sharks of Hollywood, and appeared on Larry King Live, but nothing in my life has ever been as scary as walking out of that flat.
Sobbing
He did not come after me. Instead, he went into the kitchen and fried himself an egg. That's what tore me apart: that there was nothing to fight for any more. I went to my mother's house and stayed in bed, sobbing, for two weeks. I wasn't grieving for the man I had walked out on, I was mourning the loss of my dream. And boy, did it hurt.
I cried so much that I had angry eczema beneath my eyes. I could not digest that my life CV was stained with the indelible black mark of failure. Worse, despite two court appearances, my husband has never spoken to me since the day I left. The lack of "closure" means that our short marriage feels like a very long one-night stand.
Three months later, mortified, guilty and angry, I ran away to Los Angeles. I felt too exposed in London, where I was constantly bumping into friends who would innocently ask: "So how's married life?" or congratulate me on getting married. I'm not sure who was more embarrassed, them or me, when, red-faced, I would explain that I was getting divorced.
Still in shock, in the States I rebounded into the arms of an American film producer. Forty-two, divorced, attractive and filthy rich, he spoilt me outrageously. I crisscrossed the country firstclass while weekends were spent at the smartest spas on the west coast.
He even bought me a purple fur coat when my husband's lawyers got nasty. I thought this was exactly what the doctor ordered. However, as I sat luxuriating in infinity pools staring at glorious sunsets, I recognised my inner ache. The emptiness was eating me up. I may have been in luxury, but I wasn't in love.
I returned to England and finally faced up to the facts.
Soul
Instead of going on dates, I took myself off to Oxford to see the most incredible man. Robert Holden is the best-selling author and founder of The Happiness Project, a research body which studies wellbeing. In his workshops, Holden takes you to the heart of the matter: your soul.
Together, through laughter, tears, and my terrible tantrums, we looked at what really counts - having a relationship with yourself. I learned how to fulfil myself and become less emotionally needy.
Nine months later, I went to Bath to stay in a hotel on my own for a weekend. A young man asked me out for a drink. When I discovered that he was seven years younger than me, I harped on that, as a 35-year-old divorcee, I could not possibly go. He spent weeks carefully chiselling away my resistance. Six months later, I can hardly believe my luck. I didn't imagine my soul mate would be an emotionally intelligent 28-year-old chartered surveyor.
After our third date he bought me a pair of satin Gina slingbacks and told me to wear them to the pub "just because". I have moved to Bath, where he works, after a trial run at living together during the summer. I'm still a neat-freak but it's OK because he is, too.
Now, instead of being ashamed that my marriage only lasted a year, I am immensely proud that I had the courage to get out when I did. Finding the right partner - I have learned the hard way - is like picking the correct piece of a jigsaw: the piece that fits without being forced.
-Daily Mail
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