As a kid growing up in one of the most working class parts of Glasgow, I vowed that one day I’d have a house like the ones I saw on my favourite TV programme, Dynasty.
Sure enough, the six-bedroom mansion which my husband Michael and I bought in 2008 had a sweeping staircase, just like the one featured in the home of the fabulously wealthy Carrington family.
There was also a huge walk-in wardrobe containing 100 pairs of Louboutin shoes and racks of dresses costing £4,000 a pop.
Downstairs
we had a bar, a cinema with reclining leather chairs and even a
nightclub out the back, not to mention five flashy cars on the driveway
including Michael’s £100,000 Porsche.
To
top it all, the house was in an affluent village ten miles from Glasgow
which is known as Millionaires’ Row. For me, it couldn’t have been more
perfect — but my parents hated visiting me there.
‘It’s
like a show-home,’ Mum shuddered, and she was right. I had installed
four dishwashers because I couldn’t bear the sight of dirty plates, and
our three kids were forbidden ever to put a pine coat-hanger into a
walnut wardrobe, knowing that it would freak me out.
Once
I returned from a business trip and found that the salt grinder had
been left out in the kitchen. Panic. I needed to check nothing else was
out of place.
Only
after I’d opened the cupboards one by one and ensured that the food
labels were all facing the same way did I feel in control again.
This
obsessive compulsive behaviour was a manifestation of my deep-seated
unhappiness. I found comfort in regimenting the small things around me
because I felt out of control in a much bigger part of my life — my
marriage.
As I’ve
explained in this series, my marital problems began soon after the
launch of our Ultimo lingerie brand in 1999. Going to work became like
walking through a minefield, our boardroom meetings constantly
interrupted by one or other of us storming out, and the arguments
continued at home where our sex life was virtually non-existent.
Incredibly,
I never considered divorce. I came from a background where you got on
with it, no matter what. But the beginning of the very dramatic end came
in the summer of 2011 when I appointed 31-year-old Samantha Bunn as our
new head of design.
She was nine
years younger than me and I took her under my wing. She was having big
problems with her boyfriend so I felt sorry for her and said she could
live in our guest annexe, right next door to the main house.
I
treated her like a family friend. Some nights I invited her over for
dinner and we’d all sit around the kitchen table, chatting and laughing.
But soon she started pushing the boundaries.