Welcome to my new column! I can't tell you my name but you all know who I am. I'm married to a famous footballer, with the inside scoop on what it's like to be a WAG – beyond the glitz, the glamour and the scandal. Every week I'll be confessing my innermost secrets to you...
'I'll never forget how it felt the day my life was torn apart. I awoke that Sunday morning with the sun beaming through a gap in the curtains. For the first time in ages my husband and I had gone out for a meal at a swanky restaurant and were in bed at a reasonable hour on a Saturday night. I felt relaxed, revived – a productive day was on the cards.
I reached for my phone to check the time – 7.45am – and was surprised to see a text pop up so early from a close friend.
'Are you ok? Have you seen the paper? Call me if you need me...' My heart sank into my stomach as the words filtered through. There was only one thing she could mean – the one thing all WAGs live in constant fear of.
I glanced at my husband, still sleeping soundly. Throwing on some clothes, I made a dash to the corner shop, leaving by the side entance to avoid any paps.
My hand shook as I handed some coins to the shopkeeper for the newspaper. He must have thought I'd been out on the town. I looked like crap – I never ever leave the house without mascara at least.
Taking deep breaths, I walked the 500 yards home. Perhaps I was wrong, I kept telling myself.
Not wanting to wake my husband, I shut the front door quietly. I put the paper on the table and as if by some sick coincidence opened it at the right page.
The pictures...oh my God, the pictures. There, facing me, was a girl with her boobs out, in a pair of slutty white hot pants. She had long dark hair and a ton of makeup on. She looked like a cheap, nasty stripper.
I nearly threw up when my eyes landed on the little picture of my man in his football kit.
Through tears, I read how my husband had approached this girl in a club and spent the night buying her champagne, flirting and kissing before taking her back to his hotel room and having sex three times. She described in disgusting detail the sex moves they performed, the grunts and moans he made. I began to gag.
Call me naive but up until this moment I had trusted him completely. I had no reason not to. This was the ultimate humiliation – everyone reading this story about my man over their morning coffee. Anger surged through me. I slept next to this man last night. I slept next to him every night. How could he?
I ran to our bedroom and kicked the door open. As it smashed into the wall, his head shot up instantly. In between sobs I whacked him with the paper. He jumped out of bed in complete confusion. He could see by the look on my face it was bad. I was holding a paper. I almost heard his brain click when he realised what it meant.
'What does it say? I've done nothing!' he kept saying. I wanted to pack my bags and run away. But I needed to watch his reaction – surely I could tell if he was guilty?
He kept shaking his head, bewildered. He seemed just as shocked as me. I showed him the story and he denied it until he was sobbing. He was seething that some girl he'd never seen before had done this to his family, his reputation, to me. His reaction was honest – he's always been a rubbish liar.
Only much later, after a few hours to cool down and think by myself, did I start to see the cracks in her story. Yes my husband had been in the club she went to that evening, but he had come home to me that night. He was back before 3am – I know because I can never sleep properly when he's out.
On top of that, there was no photographic evidence of him and her together. Not even a shot of them at the club, which would have been so easy for anyone to take if they'd been together, kissing. If I'd seen an incriminating photo, I would have been gone. But there was no proof.
I was torn. Nothing prepares you for that feeling of utter wretchedness. If you choose to stay, no matter what you tell yourself – how strong you are, how it will never happen again, even how the life you have with him is better than being an ex-WAG – insecurities will continue to fester and come out further down the line in all manner of ways.
I've seen it time and again with other WAGs. Look at Abbey Clancy. A gorgeous, grounded girl, but when I look at her, all I can see is her pain after Peter Crouch cheated on her with a Spanish prostitute.
Unlike the Terrys, it took us a long time for us to get over the story. We were both devastated. He thought about suing the paper. But was it really worth it? Anyone we cared about knew the story stank and it would soon be forgotten. Sadly, in our circle, kiss and tells are a weekly occurrence. We knew it wouldn't be long before we'd be usurped.'
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