Their wedding cost £65,000 and her dashing husband was a polo-playing chum of Prince Harry. So why does Jana say ...
My gilded life was all a LIE
MY WEDDING day was glorious: we drove to church in a carriage drawn by t wo glossy black horses. Our reception was in a marquee overlooking a lake; we’d even had a pontoon built so guests could walk over the limpid waters.
I had six bridesmaids and a guest list of 130. Ribeye steak was served and Belvedere vodka flowed during the allday open bar.
When I married Tom Morley, an England international polo player in 2009, at Wintershall, a Surrey country estate belonging to friends, the sumptuous hoopla cost my dear, long-suffering dad £65,000.
But within three years my marriage was over — and not for the reasons you might imagine. There was no rancour, no infidelity and Tom, who lives just outside London, remains a dear friend.
But my life now could not be further from the high- society, globe-trotting world of a polo wife.
Today, I live alone in a small studio in Soho, central London; my few possessions would fit into a suitcase. I work as a TV presenter and writer. And I’m a lesbian.
There have been two lovely women in my life since my 2012 divorce, but my current choice is to be single. I didn’t want to fall too fast into another marriage when my first had so recently ended.
Considering all this, you may wonder why, aged 26, I married Tom in the first place. But the truth is that I loved him. Moreover, I moved among a monied, royal and aristocratic elite — Princes William and Harry are Tom’s polo team mates — in which women adhere to traditional roles.
They are expected to become dutiful, stay-at-home wives; to relinquish their jobs, support the aspirations of their high- flying husbands and raise their children. They are certainly not expected to be lesbians.
After all, while high society has its quota of gay men — flamboyant bachelors who are discreetly accepted despite their sexual eccentricity — openly gay women did not exist in my social milieu.
Not that I ever consciously imagined that I was a lesbian. So ingrained was my conviction that I must adhere to the customs imbued by my upbringing, not once did I open my mind to the possibility I might be different.
As I took my solemn wedding day vows I cannot pretend I was tortured with regret, guilt or a sense of my own duplicity. I was getting married because it was what posh girls did.
I had looked forward to the day, with mild excitement, as I would to a holiday.
I didn’t want to heap shame on my family
It was a further step along the predetermined road I presumed I would travel; the route to babies and child-rearing.
Tom was 6ft 5in, handsome, funny, endearing. People remarked that we made a lovely couple. And, of course, we did. But the fissures soon began to show. When I look back to my childhood, I can recognise the early signs of my lesbianism. Every night, from the age of 12, at my girls’ Cathboarding school I said the sameolic silent prayer: ‘Please, please God, don’t let me be gay.’
Deep down, I suppose, I must have had some yearnings to lead me to think in this way, but I can’t remember noticing what they were.
My school, St Mary’s in Ascot, Berkshire, was then a convent: its pupils were a privileged and wealthy elite and each night a nun would lead bedtime prayers in our dormitory. At that time, almost 20 years ago, I was a fervent, observant Catholic and I imagined I would burn in the fires of hell if I ever admitted to being a lesbian.
I was an angry, frustrated child, marked by the sense I was different; not only sexually, in however unconscious a way, but socially. While I knew I loved male company, and I always had a large circle of male friends, I simply wasn’t excited about them sexually. I thought it was something that would develop with time.
My father had done very well for himself designing computer software in the Eighties and when he sold his company he and my mother were able to live extremely comfortably on the proceeds.
They had lovely homes in Berkshire and Kensington and the funds and leisure to travel widely. My four siblings and I were sent to expensive schools.
But while my classmates — among them the Princess of Lichtenstein — were mostly aristocratic or upper middle class, my family’s roots were quite different.
My paternal grandfather was a train driver. My mother grew up in Gateshead, Tyne & Wear, in an ordinary working-class family.
So I worked all the harder to fit in, to acquire a polished accent, to conform to the expectations of my peers and to share their hopes and ideals.
Being different was anathema to me. My aim was to run with the herd. Looking back, that was why, when my 14-year- old classmates started to kiss boys, I did, too.
They were all full of excited chatter about how amazing it was; I was indifferent, but pretended not to be. I joined in the silly, pubescent hysteria.
While I didn’t have crushes on girls, I didn’t really fancy boys either. However, like my friends, I paired up with suitable boys from Eton, Harrow or Radley College to go to nightclubs and snog. When everyone else seemed to be losing their virginity, I followed suit. But I can now see I felt completely detached from the physical act.
But did I know then that I was gay? I don’t think so.
It wasn’t until I was 23 and working in London for a small TV company as a production co-ordinator that a hint of my lesbianism surfaced. The environment in which I worked was far more liberal than the rule-bound world of school. One night, at a nightclub with friends, I met Claire, 30, who was gay. We chatted: she was attractive, kind, intelligent. One evening I went to meet her on my own. We ended up kissing and it was lovely. Part of me wondered if this was the way relationships should always have felt. I confided, excitedly, in one of my friends. ‘ That’s disgusting!’ she told me sharply and, once more, I slammed the door shut on my sexuality.
If I admitted to having t ender feelings towards women, I concluded, I’d repulse my friends, disappoint my family and heap shame and opprobrium on myself. I didn’t see Claire again, despite the kind texts she sent me. Instead I did what was expected of me.
When I was 24, I met Tom, who was a year older, at my sister’s wedding in New Zealand in 2006. Her husband trains polo ponies and Tom and he are good friends.
I was grumpy and jet-lagged, and Tom was fun. He made me laugh and teased me out of my sour mood. I enjoyed his wit, his mickey-taking, his good-humour.
A few months later, my sister asked if I’d go as Tom’s date to the Guards Polo Club at Ascot for the Cartier
We’d suddenly fly off to Rio or Hong Kong
Tournament. Tom was reserve for Prince Harry’s team. ‘Sure,’ I said. So that’s how it began.
I had a lovely day. I remember fearing it would be formal, but Tom was amusing and unstuffy. He had me clambering over barriers in my high heels and wading through mud to meet VIPs. He introduced me to Prince Harry. We all chatted and laughed over a few beers.
Tom and I started dating. I was working long hours and he was constantly flying round the world playing polo.
He’d say, ‘Let’s fly to Hong Kong/ Barbados/Rio,’ and I’d join him if I could swing the time off. It was dizzy, mad, exciting. I didn’t stop to analyse what I was feeling.
Sex with Tom was good, too, but I’d usually had a few drinks before we slept together. I wonder if, subliminally, I was trying to blot out unwanted thoughts.
My relationship with Tom evolved, and on New Year’s Day five years ago, he proposed on a New Zealand beach. I thought: ‘Yep, this is what happens next.’ Who wouldn’t want to marry Tom? He was good looking, great fun, my best friend. I said yes.
Then came our spectacular summer wedding. I remember telling myself: ‘This is the right thing to do.’ I believed it was the next step on a journey that would lead to happiness. Instead, I became desperately miserable. Tom and I bought a house in Midhurst, West Sussex, near
Cowdray Park Polo Club and I gave up the job I loved to become a dutiful polo wife.
My new vocation involved socialising with other polo WAGS, watching the men play — often flying by helicopter from one match to another — and dining in the mansions of the fabulously wealthy polo patrons who finance the players.
Yes, it sounds glamorous and exciting, but once the novelty has worn off, it’s tiring, time-consuming and — for someone with scant interest in polo — very boring. But I remember consoling myself: ‘If I could only move on to the next stage, I’ll be happy.’ And the next stage was having babies. I was, by then, in my late 20s: the other polo wives were happily reproducing.
So Tom and I tried for a baby. We f ailed. I suffered three early miscarriages because of a hormone problem. With each failure, I sank deeper into gloom, but I didn’t know what would make me happy.
Tom was away working for months at a time. I languished at home; lost and bereft. My unhappiness infected everything.
I became the worst version of myself — I was bitchy, angry and short-tempered. I would find fault with others, especially the players’ girlfriends. I would constantly moan to Tom about them. I thought them WAGish and, well, yes, beneath me.
In hindsight, I can see this was my frustration and confusion projected
I just wanted the chance to be my true self
on to them. If anything, they were the ones who were true to themselves. I was the one living a lie. I must have been a nightmare.
Finally, in May 2012 — after countless conversations with Tom in which we concluded our marriage was fractured beyond repair — I packed a small bag and left for London.
I never pinpointed that my sexuality was to blame for the end of our marriage.
There was no anger or recrimination — just abiding sadness.
I holed up in my parents’ flat in Kensington. After four days, I found a lucrative temporary job as project manager for a communications agency. And for three months I cried inconsolably.
I think, now, I was probably grieving for the loss of a life I would never enjoy, the children I’d never have and the best friend I feared I’d lose.
Tom asked for a divorce on the grounds of irreconcilable differences and I did not contest it. We resolved to stay friends, which we have.
This cutting loose was a turning point for me: I suddenly realised I was answerable only to myself. And for the first time in my adult life I felt free; untrammelled by the expectations of others.
I allowed myself to think out loud that I might actually be gay. By this time I’d turned 30. I’d also started a part-time acting course in East London. The process of learning to act demands introspection, and when I was training to act in romantic scenes, I allowed myself to fantasise about women.
I started to explore the possibility of a new sexuality. I searched online dating sites. ‘I don’t really know what I am, but I think I might be a lesbian,’ I wrote. Gay women wrote back wi t h kindness and encouragement.
Then one evening, after dinner with a friend, I passed a gay nightclub in Soho. On impulse, I walked in. I remember feeling excited, jittery, scared. It wasn’t long before my eyes locked with Natalie’s. She was 26, a personal trainer and utterly beautiful.
We started dating and after a couple of weeks we slept together. I remember thinking, ‘I don’t know what to do with a woman,’ but Natalie, who knew she was gay at 17, was considerate. We took things really slowly.
And the sex was a revelation. I remember thinking: ‘Oh my God, this is what it’s supposed to be like.’ I called Tom as I wanted him to be the first person to know; it would have been dishonourable if I’d let him find out from someone else.
I knew he had a new girlfriend, so I said: ‘We’ve got something in common: I’ve got a girlfriend, too!’
Extraordinarily, he just laughed, a tribute to his character. I think the fact I made a joke about it dissipated any potential tension.
I’m sure Tom’s polo friends teased him mercilessly, but he has the strength and humour to deal with it. For Tom and me, my sexuality is an irrelevance. I’m glad to say we’re still friends. He’s not married but he has, of course, been dating.
I introduced Natalie to my parents, who are in their 60s. They’d assumed we were merely friends.
‘Actually, she’s my girlfriend,’ I said, and to my surprise they greeted the news with equanimity.
‘Goodness, Jana, what are you going to spring on us next?’ said my father. He still teases me about the vast cost of my wedding. ‘Well, that was an expensive party,’ he says.
Privately, I’m sure my mother still hopes I’ll marry a man, but right now I can only envisage a future with a woman.
However, I’m not settling down yet. While Natalie and I fell quickly in love, I was not ready to take the leap, so we went our separate ways.
Since then, I’ve had a relationship with Ailin, a Californian theatre director. Sex with her, too, was amazing; she, too, encouraged me to be myself.
We split in April last year, again because I did not feel I was ready to have a committed relationship.
I wanted the chance to be myself. And that is what I’m doing now. In my little place, untrammelled by possessions, I’m just me.
I still enjoy dates with women. My career is gaining momentum. One day I may walk down the aisle again. But next time it will be without pomp, splendour or undue expense. And I’m certain it will be to marry a woman.