My Husband And His Side Piece Planned A Romantic Trip To My Sacred Vacation Spot — So I Sabotaged It
The getaway itinerary was the next stomach-churning confession I discovered while reading the 'secret' journal they passed back and forth. PLUS: Jane lied to you for the first time.
Hello gorgeouses,
I have a big apology to make before you read today's post. For the only time I can ever remember in my publishing history, I lied to you about something, as you will see in the note below this. And I think it was well worth it.
I hope you agree and I hope you love the unfolding in part three of this series as much as I do. Parts one and two are here if you aren't already caught up. I love you and I thank you so much for being here.
-Jane
PS Why does my note sound so somber to you today? Fucking enjoy this glorious thing! I love you and I'm not somber about it, or about this piece.
By Amelia Warner
THE REVEAL:
The telling of this story has been a long time coming. I have never shared it publicly, and I never expected to. My most pressing concern has always been the welfare and privacy of my son, which is why I am only sharing baby/young childhood photos of him here.
I was a consumer of all things Jane Pratt in the ’80s and ’90s. I respect and trust Jane.
I don’t know if anyone in my life (or my son’s life) subscribes to AJPT, but it is certainly likely that some of my contemporaries have the same history with Jane's work as I do, and are now subscribers here. She is also attracting a whole new generation of smart, savvy women, possibly young women who know my kid and may recognize me in these photos.
Amelia Warner is not my real name. From here on out (there is one more installment coming), I will respond to your comments as myself, not as Amelia. Jane understood the highly sensitive nature of this episode of my life and was gracious enough to allow me to publish under a pseudonym.
This is not how I would like for my son to learn about this part of his parents' story, if he ever does at all; however, as I got deeper into the telling of it, it became evident that I needed to share more of myself, in the form of photographs, to allow you all to connect with me as a real person, and I decided to take that risk.
If you do recognize or know me, I am appealing to your better angels and good judgment to protect my son and his anonymity by not sharing my story outside of AJPT, particularly if you know my son.
This was a crazy, terrible time in my life. I felt extremely alone. I no longer feel that way. There is power in speaking your truth. This process has been truly cathartic. I cannot tell you how much I have appreciated your responses and comments. Unsurprisingly, you are a smart, generous, and hilarious bunch.
Thank you for taking this ride with me xo
PART THREE:
Discovering my husband’s affair by way of a journal that chronicled the entire thing was gut-wrenching.
Keeping that discovery a secret for six long weeks was the hardest thing I had ever done. Uncovering his covert plan during that time to take his mistress away for a romantic weekend in Big Sur, my hallowed place, was nearly unbearable.
My emphatic plea for him to choose a different destination for his weekend away was risky; he was already perplexed by the intensity of my protestations about his choice of Big Sur.
I was not yet ready to show my cards, but I was determined to fuck up their plans.
I had so far managed to keep it together on the outside for the past month without arousing suspicion, but I was beginning to worry that my fractured insides would start to show on my face and in my body language.
A couple of nights after we mutually agreed to pause the Big Sur debate, I found myself back in our shared office. He looked up from his desk and said, “Okay. If you really don’t want me to go to Big Sur, I won’t go.”
“Great,” I said. “I don’t want you to go to Big Sur.”
“I had survived Christmas, New Year’s Eve, and my father’s birthday. All that remained was my son’s birthday, after which I still had to work out how and when I was going to land this plane.”
He emitted an exasperated exhale, and his cheeks grew flushed. He began stroking his beard, which was a tell. He did that when he was pissed or stressed. That night, he was both.
My unshakable resolve had become an unexpected and unwelcome character in this ridiculous charade. He was not happy.
“I don’t know what the big deal is,” he said.
“Asked and answered,” I replied. “You just told me that you won’t go if I don’t want you to, and I told you that I don’t want you to.”
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“I know you don’t,” I responded.
There was nothing more to say. I turned and walked out of the room, hoping to avoid any more discussion about Big fucking Sur. I must have ruined the whole idea for him because they never ended up going anywhere. Another small victory. I had won the battle, but the war was ongoing.
When the journal next appeared, I read about the quaint little place they had planned to stay on their weekend getaway, with cozy cabins nestled among the towering Redwoods on the Big Sur River.
Post Ranch Inn, the upscale, impeccably designed boutique hotel built into the cliffside of Big Sur, where we had stayed on our honeymoon, was about as rustic an environment as I had ever seen my husband in. Every detail had been considered, down to the basket they delivered to our Tree House every morning, filled with house-made granola, freshly baked muffins with homemade organic preserves, and fresh fruit. I had an in-room massage. We took our time soaking in the deep Japanese-style bathtub while taking in the expansive views of the Pacific Ocean. It was perfection.
At least they hadn’t planned to stay there, but, then again, who wants to be reminded of their current wife and their honeymoon when they’re away with their girlfriend?
My dad’s birthday dinner was the next (and second-to-last) family event I needed to fake my way through. My father’s restaurant of choice happened to be owned by my dear friend, James. My parents, reliably early to every event, were chatting with James at the host stand when my son and I arrived. I was grateful to see James’s warm, welcoming face on that chilly Saturday night and for the big hug I received. He had no idea just how badly I needed that hug.
“Staying in the house was not an option. I could barely bring myself to cook in my kitchen and sleep in my bed every night, knowing they had violated every possible personal boundary of mine in those spaces.”
My husband arrived a few minutes after my son and me. There were more hugs all around. Once we were all present and accounted for, James led us to our table. The restaurant, as always, was buzzy and filled with both Venice locals and people who only ventured west of the 405 freeway on the weekends because this is Los Angeles, and traffic rules our comings and goings in ways we don’t think even about, but that are very real.
The beautiful, vivid paintings on the walls added energy and warmth to the already inviting room. James had reserved the coveted corner booth for us. Its semicircular shape and angle afforded a view of the whole dining room and bar. James had a way of making everyone feel welcome, but if you were lucky enough to be in his circle of friends, you always felt extra-special in his presence. This extended to whoever you happened to be with. James knew my family and always treated us like we were a part of his.
After making sure we were comfortable and bringing glasses of champagne to toast my dad, James stayed and chatted us up for a while.
“IF HE ONLY KNEW” was the singular thought cycling through my brain on a loop, like a mantra, as I smiled, joked, and carried on with everyone. More champagne, please. Thankfully, my son was seated between my mom and me, so I didn’t have to make direct eye contact with her unless I wanted to, which I didn’t.
When I had called my mother the week before to tell her about the affair, she promised to keep my secret while I made my plans to leave. She was the only person I had told. She had been kind and generous and offered to loan me the $10,000 I needed to hire my attorney. I had hung up from that call, finally able to breathe and feeling like I had an ally.
The morning after that call, I woke up to an email from her: “Dear Daughter,” it began. “Along with the money comes a lecture.”
What followed was an indescribably cruel rant about, of all things, my weight. I was about 30 pounds overweight at the time, which is neither here nor there (because WHAT THE FUCK?!) but when your mother is borderline anorexic with Borderline Personality Disorder and Narcissistic Personality Disorder, this is what you get. The email was long and rambling, and she also made sure to address some of my most egregious character defects, for good measure.
My nervous system—already fully activated to a level I had never before experienced—burst into flames. It took everything I had not to buy into what she was saying, being as thoroughly groomed as I was to believe only the worst things about myself, but I had neither the time nor the energy for this madness. I replied and told her I would find the money elsewhere. Over the next two days, I received two more increasingly hateful emails, her staggering level of vitriol escalating exponentially due to my decision to disengage. A narcissist’s worst nightmare. Without saying it directly, her message was clear: “It’s no wonder he cheated on you.”
The absolute mental gymnastics of trying to appear normal while my mother and I pretended we didn’t hate each other, while also celebrating my dad, with my cheating husband to my right, was like something out of a Nancy Meyers movie, minus the lighthearted humor and mouth-watering aesthetic.
My husband loved my dad, and vice versa. They had the same sense of humor—smart, dry, and witty. Both were prone to cracking themselves up as much as (sometimes more than) their audience. Both were gifted storytellers.
It had taken a few weeks for the adrenaline to settle just enough for me to feel again, and when it did, I found myself face-to-face with my anger. As I sat next to my husband and watched him and my dad interact across the table, riffing off each other with their droll senses of humor and sharp wit, I couldn’t help but think about how disappointed my dad would be by our divorce. I resented my husband so much in that moment - that he could sit at that table and carry on, talking, laughing, and joking - while my sanity and my heart grew ever more fragile.
All I could think was, “This didn’t have to happen. You could have responded to any number of bids I made for connection. For couples therapy. You could have talked to me. We didn’t have to end up here, like this. How dare you sit here now, with a smile on your face, joking with MY dad, you fucking liar."
As the days ticked by and the moment of truth drew closer, my mind began considering how what came next was going to affect not only the three of us but our wider circle of family and friends.
In the past, whenever I had thought about leaving, one thing that stopped me, aside from wanting to give my son an intact family, was our rich and satisfying social life. Our friend group was made up of a wonderful band of talented, funny, smart, uber-creative people we loved; we had vacationed together, lingered over countless meals, and celebrated numerous milestones together. In one case, we’d raised our sons, born three months apart, together.
I already felt like the hole in the doughnut. What else was I about to lose?
I felt like I was standing on the edge of a cliff, peering over the edge, about to dive into a sea of invisibility. Would his girlfriend replace me at the dinner table?
I found myself preemptively mourning the lost hours of kinship and soul connection that I feared were on the other side of this ordeal. My husband received a text during dinner and stepped away from the dinner table to respond. He said it was work-related.
Maybe it was. It probably wasn’t.
Earlier that evening, he mentioned that he needed to meet an agency producer for drinks after dinner, so we drove separately to the restaurant. After dinner, I drove my son to a Bar Mitzvah party, and my husband went…somewhere.
The journal later revealed that ‘somewhere’ was a bar downtown, twenty-three miles from Venice Beach, where our evening had begun. There had been no agency producer.
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