She’s
one of Britain’s most flamboyant businesswomen. Now Ultimo bra tycoon
Michelle Mone is laying bare how her marriage became a battle more
bitter than any she’d faced in the boardroom. Today, in our concluding
extract, she reveals how she finally exposed her husband’s affair — and
plotted her revenge . . .
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.
At
work, she was always in Michael’s office, flirting and flicking her
long dark hair. Michael shut the door, something he never usually did,
but I could see what was going on because of the design of our
headquarters. Built in the shape of a breast — well, we had made our
fortune selling bras — they had glass walls everywhere.
While
I was away on business, Sam started popping around for dinner with
Michael and the kids. One night I saw him lifting a bottle of red out of
the wine rack and he told me he was taking it next door because Sam had
texted to say she’d run out. An hour later he returned, claiming they
had been just ‘talking’.
After
that, I was constantly asking Michael if he was having an affair and
his answer was always the same — ‘You’re mad, you need to be sectioned’.
He
told everyone, even my parents, that I needed psychiatric help, but my
suspicions continued to grow at our office Christmas party where Sam
giggled into his ear and he ignored virtually everyone else.
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