Your Story
Claire shares her story of adult grooming and abuse.
The Theatre of the Mind
I tried to download a dating app yesterday. It was on my phone for 30 seconds before I deleted it.
Lovebombed
Last Autumn, I met a man online who made me love him like no other. He was intellectual, academic, caring, funny, attentive and romantic. Our early conversations were so rapid fire that he was taking the words out of my mouth before they came out. We spoke for hours daily by phone. It was breath taking. He took it slowly, gently, knew me better than I knew myself. Now I know why. He’d researched.
Indeed, the ‘getting to know you’ period lasted so long that I eventually ‘friend zoned’ him.
That spurred him into action: before I knew it I was meeting him at Platform 8, Waterloo Station. His face lit up when he saw me. This slightly cuddly, endearingly ordinary man captured my heart. I almost ‘loved’ him before I met him. He was my mirror, but the bit I liked, for the first time ever.
You hear about women who give everything up for someone they’ve never met. I’d never understood, regarding them as a bit silly, a bit needy. Yet here I was, one step short of it. Mr W, ex Royal Navy, academic, navigation expert, ex-pat living in Rotterdam, had turned me to jelly. We snogged goodbye like teenagers. He went off to a Naval ball at the Honourable Company of Master Mariners, and I headed home with a head full of him.
Our next date was due to be in Paris, but the weekend came and went – he had to work. He wanted to put me up in the New York Hotel in Rotterdam, close to where he lived so that we had an unpressured date. That too never materialised. To be honest, I’d assumed we’d do every other weekend there or here in the UK. It was a million miles from the practical, close-by relationship that I’d sought, but I talked myself into the benefits. For a while he was my closest friend.
He was hating his job. I was wanting him here. Our communication was so intense that I eventually told him to back off a little. He sounded hurt.
He became the centre of my life. I started leaving time free for him, just in case, taking his calls just before leaving for the gym and missing much needed classes.
Our next date was London. Unsure about taking our relationship up a gear, I booked an apartment rather than a hotel so that we had the option of separate beds. I knew I’d made a friend for life, but needn’t have worried. We laughed into bed and the world vanished. For a perfect couple of days we wrapped ourselves together, emotionally, mentally and physically engrossed in our escape from reality.
Coercion and Control
It was the first time I saw him lie, really coldly, convincingly, to his boss that he was getting a supervision for his PhD, when in fact he was tucked up with me and had given up his PhD. He won’t be the first person to bunk off work, but it struck me at the time how easily the lies tripped off his tongue.
Reality for us was harder outside the bunker. He hated his job in Rotterdam. He was getting less attentive, but that honeymoon period intensity couldn’t be expected to last. At least, that’s what I told myself as he apparently spent Christmas with his mother on a cruise in the Balkans, during which time he couldn’t be in touch. His relationship with his mother was, he claimed, complex. He was secretive about her. Apparently, a spurned ex had once turned up on her doorstep.
I gave up a business I’d been working on, a passion that had burned for years. I finally had the money to invest, but he persuaded me that it was too big a risk and we’d never get any time together.
In January, he bought me a flight to Rotterdam, and we were to have our first weekend date. All our other ‘trysts’ had been week days. I was suspicious, about how he was making me feel, shabby, needy. I explained my feelings to him and he blamed my good friend for poisoning my mind.
Eventually he threw in the job. A leadership expert, he told me he thought the management at Simwave was shoddy. However, he was going for Chartered status at the Honourable Company of Master Mariners as a boost.
I was angrily told that I couldn’t go to the ceremony with him, that it was a silly little paper signing, and I was dispatched to Rotterdam to wait for him there.
We’d both initially had tickets for later flights, but his job loss meant he brought them forward to give us more time together. I was now on the earlier flight, he was on a later one. I knew deep inside, despite having sent me a message from a gin bar the week before that he was warming up for my visit, that he wasn’t coming. But I had a ticket and accommodation at his expense. I’d never spent much time in Rotterdam, so went anyway. Sure enough, he didn’t turn up until the following morning. He’d “missed his flight” and apparently stayed in a very expensive hotel at the airport.
His communication started faltering.
Eventually I called time, sure he was living with someone, especially as he had now moved back to the UK, jobless, but only ever managed passing meets. On Valentine’s Day, he came over from his mother’s in Essex with a bunch of garage flowers, but had to get to Portsmouth to catch a ship for ‘Navy Reserve’ duty that evening. The timings didn’t ring true.
Punishment
Eventually he talked me round.
It was easy. I’d been out with an ex in the gap, and it just wasn’t the same.
Mr W understood me. I accepted I was nasty and should have accepted that he had a thing about his mother. We had some bridges to build, and I was going to have to demure. Despite being unhappy at his mums, we couldn’t live together because he’d apparently married his second wife within six months. But, promisingly, he wanted me to hold off buying my little Spanish bolthole. He was going to buy it with me. We would have our little place away from the World.
Despite being conscious of some cruel things he did, I was feeling increasingly bad about myself, and spent days helping to research jobs for him, preparing presentations, to make amends. Yet still deep inside feeling a niggle, I hired a private detective to find out what was really going on.
Eventually, two weeks of being ‘ghosted’ by him, worrying about the cancer he purported to being tested for, and having completely omitted to acknowledge my birthday despite having left it clear for a promised weekend in Paris, seven months of relationship ended with a little email about how difficult his life was and he had no more time for me. I replied that I was sorry, that whatever our relationship had diminished to, I was grateful for the good bits.
I was relieved.
The truth
It was too late to call off the investigators, they’d started work: he was living with a woman near Fareham, in a house he’d supposedly rented out. I sent him a choice text and moved on. To stop anyone else getting duped by him, I posted some of our pictures up on Facebook, a rare ‘public’ post, pointing out his marital situation and where he was living – not in the mess on a naval base or with mother.
The man had no more loved me than a politician kissing a baby. Awful truths started to crawl daily out of the woodwork. Alan Ayckbourn would be hard pushed to make up some of it, especially the Master Mariners event, where at least three women had wanted to attend. But the sadder stories were what he’d done to his family. I was just one in a string of women that he’d groomed into relationships.
I had consented to a physical relationship only after extracting an explicit promise of him being unmarried and not dating anyone else. That he had a clean bill of sexual health. He had lied to obtain that consent, was married, had multiple other partners simultaneously, and had lied about his sexual status, putting me at risk.
My reward for loving Mr W was planned suicide (fortunately not acted on), a police harassment notice, and now a civil law suit because his wife claims to have suffered enough to need three months off work. He apparently bears no blame for this. It’s my fault for naming him.
I am no longer the person I was. He’s eaten at my self esteem. I doubt I’ll ever date again. How can I? The only person I’ve loved in over 30 years was never real, just a mind game.
Looking back through our conversations for the police and for my solicitors, he laced the clues, lured me in to hurt me. He won the mind game.
Grooming is very different from an affair. Mr W only ever wanted me to break my own moral codes, to use his “theatre of the mind” to push my boundaries. I am shamed that he succeeded, in more ways than I’ll admit here.
But I’ll use that shame and disgust to make sure that people like him – men and women alike, are no longer allowed to hurt others legally. My explicit consent matters as much as money. More.
Too many victims end up further victimised when they speak out. He, meanwhile, and others like him, continue to re-offend with impunity.
