I’d sworn to hate my housemate’s ex forever – then I met him

Opening the front door, I was startled to find an unknown woman standing on my porch.

I’d been home alone on that rainy Tuesday evening in February 2004 when an unexpected knock came.

This stranger was about my age (early 20s), but she was also soaked through and crying.

Between sniffles she mumbled something about knowing my housemate and that he said she could stay for a few days. I rolled my eyes – this wasn’t the first time my housemate had taken in a stray.

I proceeded to invite her in to get warm and after getting her installed on an air bed and making her a cup of tea, we got to know each other.

She told me she was from New Zealand and had been travelling with her fiancé. However, the reason she’d ended up here was because he’d thrown her out that night all because she didn’t want to go skiing.

‘What a dick!’ I thought.

I gave her a hug, told her I thought that was rough, and quickly swapped our mugs of tea for a bottle of white wine.

By the time my housemate came home, me and the new girl were firm friends.

Now, I’m sure she only intended to stay temporarily, but fast forward to May and the new girl was now a permanent fixture in our flat – now in a spare single bed donated from a friend.

At this time, I was laser focused on my career but also in my third year of single life, loving the odd late night liaison and any excuse to relax with friends in the sun.

That’s why, on the bank holiday weekend, we hosted a party at our place. By 4pm the garden was crammed full of people, we’d had a water fight, and the BBQ was smouldering some deadly looking sausages.

I’d just been daydreaming about the after party when there was an unexpected knock on the door.

This time when I answered it there was a tall, muscular, bearded man in wrap-around sunglasses standing before me.

He was wearing a tight shirt, denim shorts, Birkenstocks and was sporting frosted tips. In one hand he had a bottle of gin, and in the other he had a cardboard box full of photo frames, mini ornaments and… a G-string?!

Confused didn’t even begin to cover it. And then he spoke.

‘I’m Noah,’ he said with a thick Kiwi accent.

‘S**t. The Ex.’ I thought.

‘Been meaning to bring this back for ages,’ he said, nodding to the box. ‘I heard there was a party and I’m absolutely hanging from last night. Haven’t even slept. I could use a snag (Kiwi slang for sausage)!’

Before I could refuse him entry he pushed past me and headed straight to the kitchen.

The box, full of his ex’s belongings, got dumped on the table, and he rattled around looking for clean glasses and ice.

‘What a dick!’ I thought, again.

Luckily, by this point of the day, both my housemates had disappeared off – one upstairs with another party goer, and the other, Noah’s ex, had gone over to her new boyfriend’s house, so hadn’t seen him arrive.

I was just about to tell him there was a hot dog stall at the nearby football stadium when he shoved a gin in my hand, pulled his glasses up to reveal twinkling hazel eyes, clinked my glass and said, ‘Kia Ora!’

I instantly softened. ‘Perhaps he could stay, just for a bit,’ I thought secretively.

We headed to the garden, which was full of 30-odd people, where we got talking and it turned out we had a lot in common, including a love of skiing.

‘That’s why we broke up,’ he said, referring to his ex and I decided to call him out.

‘Oh yes, because she didn’t want to go.’ I said wryly. And then he snorted and spat out his drink.

‘No! We booked skiing together, but she was ill so I went on my own.’ He explained. ‘When I came back she had met someone else and left.’

I was speechless. That was a very different story from the one I’d heard and I blushed. I felt so stupid for taking her word for it.

Thankfully Noah didn’t seem to care as he quickly changed the subject: ‘Anyway, I’ve got tickets for Mr Scruff on Saturday, want to come? Party at mine first.’

If there’s one thing I loved more than Mr Scruff, it’s Mr Scruff with a hot guy who is no longer morally dubious.

I agreed to go. And later, I confronted my new housemate.

‘I didn’t think you’d like the truth,’ she said, sadly. ‘And I didn’t think it would matter because you’d never meet him. But… he’s a nice guy, enjoy.’

When I turned up at his house the following week the party was a party for two. ‘Everyone else said they’d meet us there,’ he smiled, but I secretly didn’t mind.

After a few drinks we were relaxed and chatty, touching each other’s arm, leg, lips. I’d never felt so comfortable with someone before and it was almost a shame to go out.

Still, it was a great night, and I ended up staying over.

The next morning, he had croissants and fresh orange juice ready for breakfast – clearly he’d anticipated me staying. ‘What a dick!’ I thought once more, only this time it was very much tongue in cheek.

From then on we spent all our time together and within five years we were married homeowners with a baby. And this year, we celebrated 20 years together.

I’m even still occasionally in touch with the housemate that accidentally brought us together.

It’s crazy to think that none of this would have happened if I’d never opened my front door that night in February. But I’m so glad I did.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

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