I knew, at the age of 25, when I met my now-husband, that he was a certain type of man – already accustomed to having the best of everything, thanks to his upbringing, and on a surefire path to success. 

My childhood was far less glamorous, my career prospects less dazzling. As our relationship continued into our late 20s and his career became more established, I was increasingly in his shadow. 

I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, when I accepted his proposal, I was tacitly agreeing to become a trophy wife; but I certainly knew that my own life, friends, family and “career”, such as it was, would take a back seat.

We’ve been married 14 years now and have two children. There was never any doubt that I would give up work to become a full-time mother, as his mother had done. But I absolutely wanted to have those early years with my babies so I didn’t mind one bit.

Nor was it any surprise that our household finances were in my husband’s hands: finance is his forte, after all, not mine. I have my own account which my husband regularly tops up with enough for household expenses and “treats” like lunches and spa days.

What it’s probably not enough for, however, is the “tweakments” I have started booking for myself. Since I hit 40 I’ve been going for regular Botox injections, fillers and Profhilo to lift, plump, firm and de-crease my now officially middle-aged face. None of this comes cheap, obviously. So I’ve had to make my money shapeshift to accommodate them. 

My gym membership and beauty treatments (hairdresser appointments are non negotiable, unfortunately) have all been diverted to the cause. I wear beautiful clothes but am a savvy shopper, buying from designer outlets and upmarket charity shops. It makes me smile ruefully that while other women are knocking pounds off the true cost of their purchases, I’m heavily inflating mine.

My husband has always wanted me to look my best, encouraging me to buy nice clothes, go to the gym and have regular facials and massages. For some reason, however, he has a passionate objection to any kind of surgical intervention. 

He says he hates anything fake and that my “natural” beauty was one of the first things that attracted him to me. He is scathing about celebrities who have had work done, saying they all look like wax models of each other.

So far, he seems not to have rumbled me. A few days ago, I caught him looking at me intently and asked him what he was staring at. He said: “You’re so gorgeous. Look at you. Not a line, or a wrinkle. You look as good as you did the day I met you. You’re a freak of nature!” For a split second, I was terrified – but then he swept me into a hug and laughed: “I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

I sometimes regret not just telling him the truth in the first place. But I’ve been lying for too long to come clean now and it might cause him to question whether I’ve been dishonest about other things, too. 

I’m lucky that none of the treatments I have require any downtime; what’s luckier is that my husband doesn’t ask to see my bank statements or receipts. But I get quite anxious, at times, thinking about what might happen if the truth were to come out.

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