There were no rows, no infidelity, no rancour — not even the slightest hint that our eight-year, happy marriage was foundering. I’d thought we were compatible, content; so blissfully at ease in each other’s company that we were certain to grow old together.

So on the summer night almost two years ago, when my husband Steve told me he was leaving me, I was totally shocked. It was as if my steadfast, calm and dependable husband had gone out and been replaced by an evil twin.

A mere three months later I was in for another nasty surprise when Steve demanded a settlement of £300,000 — a sum the courts have since decreed I must pay him. This, despite the fact he did not support me during our marriage and lived rent-free in my home, from where he ran his businesses.

Steve, the law dictated, needed a share of my money because — as a result of injudicious financial decisions — he had no home. And it was down to me, the wealthier partner who had always been prudent with my money, to give him sufficient funds to provide him with a roof over his head.

There were no rows, no infidelity, no rancour — not even the slightest hint that our eight-year, happy marriage was foundering, writes Jane Pearson

Everyone assumes it is men who end up saddled with large divorce settlements. After all, every week there’s yet another high-profile example.

But the fact is the law is gender-neutral when it comes to divorce, and husbands who marry wives wealthier than them — as I have discovered to my cost — can look forward to an equally lucrative payday.

Although the term gold-digger is often associated with women, Steve proves that men marry for money as well. How else to explain his sudden emotional about-turn and subsequent financial demands?

Last week I handed over the money, having liquidised my assets and — in my 60th year — taken out the biggest loan of my life to cover the payment to him.

I’m furious. Not because he left me — I have learned to live with the ache of abandonment — but because he reneged on a promise never to make financial demands on me.

I have, since my divorce from my first husband in 1996, always supported myself financially, working as a book-keeper and helping, with my sister Ann, to run our parents’ successful property company. I have always lived within my means.

So I believe my anger and resentment at the iniquity of the law are justified. Steve contributed nothing financially to our relationship, except the monthly £600 he paid into a joint account — I put in the same amount — towards bills and the occasional treat.

In return, he shared my £950,000, five-bedroom home — the house I love, in which I raised my sons Ross, 35 and Alex, 33 after my divorce from their father — in an affluent suburb of Hemel Hempstead, Hertfordshire.

I was pleased to offer Steve rent-free space in my home, from which he ran his businesses.

So I’m forced to ask myself: did Steve regard me as a cash cow? Was his sudden decision to divorce me a cynical ploy to extricate himself from financial problems?

'When my husband Steve told me he was leaving me, I was totally shocked. It was as if my steadfast, calm and dependable husband had gone out and been replaced by an evil twin'

Whatever the reason, several facts are undisputed. Steve, who was living in a modest flat in Elstree, Hertfordshire, when we met in June 2004, had far fewer assets than I.

Before we married, he sold his flat and was due to buy into my house with the equity.

But the chance arose to invest in an online jewellery business, and he ploughed the money into this instead. We discussed his decision and I believed he would invest in my house later.

Steve’s decision proved unwise. After we separated, I learned that the jewellery business was in trouble. So when Steve left me, he had debts and no home. And the law decrees I must be the one to atone for his lack of acumen, and provide a home for him.

Can this be equitable? I think not. I strongly believe the law should be changed so that partners who walk out on their spouses on a whim should not be entitled to recompense.

After all, I adored Steve and believed my love was reciprocated. I intended to keep my wedding day vow to stay with him until death parted us.

So why should I be bailing out the man who abandoned me and broke his promises?

Steve had assured me — and my father Alban, 87, when he asked for my hand in marriage — that he was not marrying me for my money and would never make a financial claim against me. And because he seemed so honourable, we believed him. Yet the man I trusted has proved to be mercenary.

All of which leads me to ask: did I ever really know him? And should we ever trust a partner we meet through an internet dating site, as I did Stephen Horrey?

Certainly I do not think I was either gullible or rash. I was wary of men, having been grievously hurt by my first husband’s infidelity. He was my first boyfriend, we’d met when I was 18.

When we finally divorced after 20 years of marriage I was adamant I would never marry again.

With my first husband our assets were split 60/40; I received the larger share because I was raising our two sons.

It was a good friend, Phyllis, who had suggested I try internet dating eight years after my first divorce. In fact she had already spotted Steve’s profile. ‘I’ve found this really nice guy. He’s perfect for you,’ she said. And so it seemed.

Steve is 6 ft 2 in to my 5 ft10 in. His photograph showed a distinguished and pleasant-looking man with steel-grey hair and a moustache.

He, like me, was divorced with two grown-up children and both of us were self-employed — him in the jewellery business.

He seemed, from his interest in the environment and world poverty, to be both public-spirited and kind, and his two years as a special constable indicated integrity. I was also drawn to our shared interest in walking and the countryside. A pleasant exchange of emails ensued.

Our meeting in a pub a week or so later confirmed my impression that he was a decent man. Conversation flowed and at the end of a pleasant evening, we shook hands and agreed to meet again.

'A mere three months later I was in for another nasty surprise when Steve demanded a settlement of £300,000 — a sum the courts have since decreed I must pay him'

A rather old-fashioned courtship ensued. Steve exerted no pressure on me and after our first few meetings did no more than kiss me goodbye on the cheek.

Within a couple of months, however, my affection for him was growing. I took him to meet my parents. They all got along so well, I remember saying to my cousin Jane: ‘If this man asks me to marry him I’m going to say yes.’

And my dad was chuffed when, in October 2004, Steve asked for permission to marry me. Gladly he gave his blessing, and I had no hesitation in agreeing when Steve proposed.

Our shared pleasures were modest ones: we toasted our engagement with a mug of Horlicks.

Any early concerns about the disparity in our wealth — Steve was evidently less well off than me — were swiftly dispelled. He seemed not remotely interested in how much money I had.

Even so, I asked my solicitor at the time if I should draw up a pre-nup — a contract which would protect my home and assets in the event that we split up — but I was advised that such documents were not binding.

SO WHAT DOES HER EX SAY? Steve Horrey comments: ‘The law is the law. Jane was the wealthier partner — that is incontestable. When we divorced I just wanted to get back to the financial position I was in when we started our relationship. ‘I feel we reached a fair and reasonable compromise for both parties without going to court. ‘The jewellery business to which she refers was in trouble ten years ago, but it is now a small, profitable business.’ Advertisement

Anyway, I trusted Steve implicitly, so thought I would never need one.

After two years we were married, and we shared our wedding day in March 2006 with 100 guests who gathered at an idyllic tythe barn in Hertfordshire.

The eight years that followed were, I firmly believe for both of us, very happy ones. Our marriage was fulfilling in every way.

The only cloud on our horizon was Steve’s business.

Occasionally he seemed frustrated that things were not going well, but I would reassure him that, even if he worked as a shelf-stacker, we could still be happy.

And when I think about the days that led up to his leaving, there was not the slightest intimation that anything was troubling him.

On the contrary, we’d enjoyed a gloriously happy few days together.

Two days before he left, he booked us a holiday in Las Vegas. Why would he have arranged that, if he knew he planned to leave me?

On the Saturday he had paraded me at a wedding of his friends. We were as close and affectionate as any two people in the room.

Did he really not know then, as he protested later, what he was about to do? Or was his display of affection just an elaborate charade?

The Sunday morning before he left we’d had several invitations, and because we couldn’t attend them all together, I’d gone to my brother-in-law’s birthday lunch and my god-daughter’s house-warming while Steve went to a barbecue at the home of his friend and partner in his online jewellery company.

'The fact is the law is gender-neutral when it comes to divorce, and husbands who marry wives wealthier than them — as I have discovered to my cost — can look forward to an equally lucrative payday'

During that warm July afternoon he texted me: ‘Miss you. Love you lots.’

Late that afternoon I got home, showered and, anticipating a quiet romantic evening, waited for Steve’s return.

At about 9pm, mildly concerned that he wasn’t yet back, I sent him a text, offering to collect him from the station. He replied that he was happy to walk.

An hour later he still hadn’t come home and I began to feel worried. It was, therefore, anxiety not annoyance that prompted me to ask him, when he finally arrived home at 11pm, where he had been.

And it was as if a switch had been flicked: my mild, kind husband became cold, remote. ‘It’s over. I’m leaving you,’ he said.

In tears, I begged him not to end our marriage, to explain what had happened; at least to give us another chance. I put my arms out to hug him but my normally tactile husband was frozen, detached.

Had something happened at the barbecue to make him throw away a decade’s worth of happiness? I’ll never know. I wrote to his friend who hosted it, to ask, but had no reply. That night Steve slept in a spare bedroom. My loving husband — who had never raised his voice in anger — became a stranger.

‘Let’s take a deep breath and talk,’ I pleaded the next morning. But he was immovable.

Steve finally moved out of my house on September 1, 2014 and it swiftly became clear that he did not intend to leave empty-handed. Through his solicitors, he demanded £300,000 and when I asked where he thought I would find that sort of money, he replied: ‘There’s plenty of cash washing round in your family to pay me.’

I felt insulted; appalled by the implication that I would take money from my elderly parents to pay him off.

During the months that followed, as I was hectored and bullied by Steve’s solicitors, I sunk into a slough of despond. I toyed with contesting his claim through the courts, but was advised it would be fruitless: I would be made to pay heavily. I considered selling my home to pay him, but concluded I did not want to do so under duress.

Perhaps I will have to resort to it.

Although I face my 60th year alone, I do so with the priceless support of family and good friends.

Last week I delivered Steve’s cheque to him in person.

The law dictates I give him the money to meet his ‘needs’ and provide him with somewhere to live. However he could spend it on anything — money that should have been my children’s inheritance.

Surely the divorce laws should be changed to take into account the circumstances in which a couple divorce. I did not want Steve to leave me. Actually, I loved him.