Love cheat of Arabia

They say divorce is the psychological equivalent of a coronary. For Yvonne Gibney, it was more like open-heart surgery with no anaesthetic. Yvonne, a senior nurse clinician from the Wirral, tells her shocking tale of bigamous betrayal…

For 17 happy years, I believed I had a great marriage, based on trust and mutual respect. Instead, it was a pantomime, an extraordinary spider’s web of deceit. As an emotionally intelligent, professional woman in my mid-50s, to discover I’d been so duped by my husband Maurice was simply devastating.

My divorce was a horror story, but if I’ve survived, anyone can. It’s taken around four years to super-glue my confidence back together, though I’d be lying if I pretended there were no cracks.

I met Maurice Gibney, then 29, in Lagos, Nigeria, when I was 35. I was working as a nurse, while he was an oil engineer. Attraction was instant and within 11 weeks, we’d married in an intimate, candlelit ceremony in a Scottish castle. His daughter Samantha was four – the same age as my boy Josh – and three years later, our son Sebastian was born.

I believed I had a great marriage. Instead, it was an extraordinary spider’s web of deceit.

We moved back to the Wirral when Seb was eight and although Maurice’s work took him all over the world, he was a dedicated dad and husband. Our phone bills were huge as we spoke several times a day whenever he was away and friends said we communicated better than any other couple they knew.

In 2011, when Seb was 13, Maurice took a job in Oman, on the south-east coast of the Arabian peninsula. It was 4000 miles away, but we’d proved our marriage was robust enough to survive separation. I flew over to celebrate our 16th wedding anniversary and was thrilled with the diamanté Islamic veil Maurice bought me as a gift. We were looking forward to our first Oman Christmas together, but Maurice was called away to the desert at the last minute, so Seb and I spent it alone. Maurice seemed quiet on his return, which I took for guilt. I reassured him that I totally understood; work was work after all.

He was back and forth to the UK over the next months, but seemed depressed. Walking hand-in-hand on a Welsh beach one summer’s day, he told me he wanted a divorce. ‘Everything would stay the same, we just wouldn’t be married anymore,’ he said. ‘I’d be a better husband and father that way.’

We were looking forward to Christmas together, but Maurice was called away at the last minute.

It made no sense to me. I was hurt and confused, but I told myself it was the depression talking, some form of mid-life crisis, to hold tight, wait and see. Maurice went back to Oman and for my 52nd birthday the following month, send a new iPad and a huge bouquet of lilies with a note that read: ‘Yet another birthday apart. Promise I’ll make up for it. Love you so much.’

His behaviour became erratic though. He was due back that Christmas but cried off at the last minute, so again, we were disappointed and upset. He turned up in the New Year, but when I tried to discuss what had happened at Christmas, he stormed off. I was suddenly mutinous. ‘If he wants a divorce, he can bloomin’ have one,’ I thought, and started legal proceedings.

I wanted to keep it all amicable for the kids’ sake, though, and we kept in email contact. When I passed my diploma in travel medicine, he sent champagne with a loving note. Such mixed messages from the man I thought I knew inside out – what was really going on?

Then one sleepless night, flicking through Facebook, I saw a picture of Maurice’s sister and niece dressed up in fascinators. Zooming in, I saw familiar hills – Oman. My mind whirled – in an email, Maurice told me his family had visited, but something wasn’t stacking up. No one wears a fascinator on the beach…

I turned detective. Going through some old bank statements, I found Maurice had used his credit card in the West Midlands in December 2011, when Seb and I were in Oman for Christmas. So the job in the desert had been a lie. While we were filling time, waiting for him, he’d scarpered back to England.

Researching further, I found that the following Christmas, when he was meant to be in Oman and Seb and I had been stranded once again, he was actually at his mother’s house, 15 miles down the road. By now, I was convinced he was having an affair. A little more Miss Marple investigation yielded the phone number of an address in Stourbridge, which Maurice had given to a car-hire firm.

I called, saying I needed to verify his details. ‘Maurice is my brother-in-law,’ the stranger said. ‘He’s married to my sister.’ Reeling, I stuttered: ‘Are we talking about the same Maurice Gibney? Works in Oman, Liverpool fan, bald?’

‘Yes,’ she confirmed. ‘Who are you?’

‘I,’ I replied, ‘am Maurice’s wife.’

She hung up.

The brutal truth dawned. My husband was a bigamist. But who was the second Mrs Gibney?

I turned detective. Going through old bank statements. The brutal truth dawned. My husband was a bigamist.

On Facebook days later, I found Suzanne Prudhoe, a teacher from Oman. Her profile picture was her as a bride, kissing her groom, my husband Maurice, in a swanky hotel in Oman. They’d been married nearly a year. Her status showed they’d got engaged the month before Maurice had mentioned divorce as we walked on the beach.

Photos showed Samantha, who I’d loved as a daughter, as bridesmaid and my mother-in-law walking Maurice down the aisle. Shaking, I called my solicitor. I felt battered, isolated, my self-esteem as wrung out as the handkerchiefs that mopped my constantly dripping tears. If he’d had an affair, friends would have consoled me with ‘Ooh, my bloke did that to me’. But no one could share their bigamy stories over a stiff gin on a Friday night.

It emerged that Maurice had told everyone, wife number two included, that we had divorced years earlier. He married in the British Embassy using false papers, followed by the lavish hotel reception days later. In October 2014, he pleaded guilty to bigamy in Wirral Magistrates’ Court and was given a six-month suspended sentence.

He and Suzanne returned to Oman, where at social functions, they apparently laughed it off whenever the case was mentioned. Sebastian has had no contact with his father since, which is heart-breaking. But now that over two years have elapsed, despite on-going court battles over finances, I mainly feel thankful that we are finally free from Maurice’s destructive force.

Divorce is earth-shattering at all ages, but in my mid-50s, mine felt like a Richter scale 9. I felt betrayed physically, emotionally, morally and spiritually. I didn’t have a single happy memory to cherish because our entire marriage felt like a falsehood. I preserved my sanity with work, the gym, long beach walks with a friend. And a recently widowed friend and I combined forces for ‘couples’ events.

I believed I was too wounded ever to embark on another relationship, but one day, a consultation with a male client lasted far longer than necessary. We met up, we walked and talked and two years later, we’re still together. We share a passion for travel and trekked in South America last year. We are both independent, but enjoy each other’s company hugely. We are completely honest with each other and my confidence has flooded back.

I can look ahead to the rest of my life with joy again. My message to anyone of a certain age who’s been divorced, ditched or dumped, is never give up. If I can find trust and happiness again, anyone can.

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