In the depths of heartbreak after splitting from my partner of three years, I joined a small recovery group for people exploring patterns of love and attachment in the hope it could give me closure.

I had already been in recovery from alcoholism for nearly 11 years, and knew a support group was crucial in helping me process a difficult time when I might be most tempted to reach for the bottle.

What I didn’t know was that I was about to endure another, in some ways more painful, betrayal.

It was there that I saw Gemma – we’d crossed paths before through mutual friends in West Londonand I knew she was part of the same social crowd my ex Blake sometimes hung out in.

A former dancer, she has a magnetic, sexy energy that draws people in.

She quickly turned out to be the exact balm I needed to soothe my broken heart and we became fast friends; while she knew Blake, she made it clear her loyalty lay with me. We shared long walks and late-night calls; I told her everything about my relationship: the affection, the sex, the tension, the bitter disappointment.

My relationship with Blake hadn’t been perfect but it felt passionate until he started pulling away, his messages becoming cold. As the warmth vanished, I felt we had little choice but to break up. Gemma and I workshopped every detail of what might have gone wrong, just as close female friends often do.

And she offloaded on me about a recent break-up of her own, one she’d found equally challenging.

I thought I’d found a friend who understood heartbreak in the same language.

Then came the moment that changed everything.

I was at Gemma’s flat one afternoon – she was lying on her bed, chatting about nothing, when Blake’s name slipped out. Just a passing mention that they’d spoken; too casual to be casual. Something in my gut shifted.

‘You’ve seen him recently?’ I asked.

‘Oh, just bumped into him,’ she said, not meeting my eye. ‘A few of us caught up.’

I hesitated. ‘When was that?’

She looked up, expression flickering – something unreadable, almost guilt.

‘Gemma,’ I said quietly, ‘were you and Blake ever… involved?’

Silence. She sat up, pushed a strand of hair from her face and exhaled.

That’s when it all came out: Blake and Gemma had been having sex behind my back a year into our relationship.

Every conversation we’d had about him replayed in my head – her sympathy, her interest, the way she’d probed for details. All of it was now poisoned by what she hadn’t said.

I went into shock. My body started shaking, though my voice stayed calm. I didn’t lose my cool or cry; I just kept asking questions, trying to make sense of it.

‘It meant nothing,’ she insisted. ‘Since getting to know you I’ve grown to adore you. I’m on your team.’

My legs went to jelly. I could barely stand to leave. She sat cross-legged, voice gentle, almost pleading, but all I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears.

My head spinning, I somehow managed to eventually drive home and call Blake. He denied it at first, then stammered something about it being ‘just once’. But his guilty hesitation told me everything.

In the days that followed, the real betrayal sunk in. It wasn’t just that they’d slept together; it was that she’d listened while I poured my heart out about him.

All those late-night calls, the advice, the sympathetic looks – now they felt like a performance.

I only got a sense of how long the affair had been going on for when friends later told me. I never fully got to the bottom of the details, as Blake and Gemma were both maddeningly vague about the timeline, but Gemma eventually confessed to feeling guilty for not telling me sooner – that she’d taken a shine to me and genuinely wanted to help.

The tragic thing was that my heartbreak intensified. I felt like I’d lost two people I adored, instead of just one.

So when I heard Lily Allen’s new album West End Girl, about discovering her husband David Harbour’s affair, I felt an overwhelming jolt of recognition. Like Lily’s ‘Madeline’ – the other woman in her marriage to Harbour – Gemma wasn’t a stranger, which made the betrayal all the more destabilising.

And, like Lily, who has been clean for about six years, I’m in recovery from alcohol addiction, meaning I can’t reach for a drink to numb my pain. Being sober means I have to endure every raw emotion. All it would have taken was one or two chilled glasses of white wine – instant, delicious relief – but I couldn’t do it.

By day, I kept working as a communications lead and relationship expert at the dating app eHarmony – smiling through meetings, speaking on national radio about healthy love while privately falling apart and resisting the urge to relapse.

My rock-bottom moment, before I became sober, remains a vivid memory today. I’d been out with friends after work – another busy Thursday in the office that bled into night. When everyone else went home, I didn’t. I went clubbing alone, still wired from work. Drinking felt like an instant painkiller – a way to dull the anxiety and pressure. But my binges were getting bigger and more dangerous.

I remember dancing alone at a Soho bar. People were doing lines of cocaine in corners, champagne and shots arriving on repeat. They encouraged me to join their party in a VIP area. Some time later I went into a blackout.

I woke up on a doorstep in Chiswick – nearly six miles away from my home in Queen’s Park – shaking with cold, wrapped in a stranger’s coat. My head pounded; one of my shoes was missing. I’d been out of control before, but never this far gone.

That morning in Chiswick was my line in the sand. Sobriety didn’t happen overnight, but through AA meetings, therapy and sheer determination, I did it – one day at a time.

Which is why, when the betrayal hit, it wasn’t just heartbreak I had to survive. It was the realisation that I couldn’t blot it out. Sobriety meant feeling every sucker punch of humiliation and loss, sitting with it until it softened.

Without alcohol to dull it, the pain was excruciating. Betrayal mimics grief – denial, bargaining, anger, despair – but, unlike bereavement, the stages don’t follow a polite order. They spin.

In hindsight, the depth of my reaction touched something older. There’s a saying in recovery: if your reaction feels hysterical, it’s probably historical. My grief reopened old wounds – past break-ups, my parents’ divorce, even school bullying.

Oddly, that’s when real recovery began – the kind I now help other women through in my coaching work.

Like Lily reportedly checking into a trauma treatment centre, I found a therapist specialising in love addiction who helped me unpack the triggers behind my breakdown. Slowly, steadily, I let go.

Since the break-up with Blake, I’ve had a few flirtations but nothing significant – and that’s fine, because I have discovered something far more precious. I learned to be happy in my own skin, on my own terms. Instead of chasing another relationship, I built my own coaching business to help others heal.

I am now 53, and I think women past 40 choose differently. You understand the cost of drama and lean towards steadiness, maturity and kindness.

I didn’t choose this pain. But being in recovery forced me to face the storm instead of drowning it – and so I realised that tackling heartbreak head-on puts you on the best path to feeling whole again.

That’s the lesson I now pass on.