As I watched my husband David blow-dry my eight-year-old daughter Rachel's hair, I couldn't help but laugh. He was pretending to be a camp hairdresser with a terrible French accent, and it was making her erupt into giggles. It took a special man to take on someone else's child, and David had done just that.
I'd first met David when I was working in Lloyds Bank in Bournemouth in the summer of 1998. I was 34, divorced with three children and had just left a difficult relationship. David, then 36, would come into the bank to pay in cheques for the insurance company he worked for, and we clicked immediately. He was funny and friendly, but I stopped short of fancying him on account of his ‘80s bouffant hairdo!
Then…
