The horrible secret I can by no means inform my husband: I slept together with his brother earlier than I met him… and I nonetheless get a rush of need over the household dinner desk even 25 years later

This year’s Christmas dinner was the hardest so far; I could barely handle the tension.

As the roast potatoes were handed down the table at my in-laws’, a familiar frisson of excitement passed through me that had nothing to do with how reliably crispy my husband’s mother makes them.

No, it was the look shared between her son and me as our hands touched on the dish being passed that set my pulse racing.

Even after 25 years, that sideways glance still has enough meaning behind it to make my heart skip a beat.

Why? Because it takes me right back to the wild 36 hours we spent getting to know each other – purely biblically – having embarked on what we agreed at the time would be nothing more than a carefree night of passion.

All these years, a wedding, and two children have done nothing to take the heat from the memories of the things we did to each other that night that get triggered whenever he gives me that look.

One Christmas I blushed so hard in response that I quickly blamed it on my hormones, prompting my father-in-law to jump up and turn the heating down.

All this would be fine if the son responsible – James, their eldest, the definition of tall, dark and handsome – was the one I am now happily married to.

But my husband happens to be the younger boy, Michael – gentler, kinder, sweeter and slightly less good looking. And neither he nor anyone else sat at that festive table had the faintest idea that James and I met a good two years before Michael introduced me to the family.

I still shudder at the memory of walking into Michael’s parents’ garden one summer’s afternoon in 2001 and seeing James standing over a barbecue flipping burgers.

I recognised him immediately as the man I’d had a fling with during a trip to see a school friend at her university. I’d been 19, while James was two years older and in his final year.

He’d been playing guitar in the band performing at the student union that evening, and we got chatting at the bar afterwards.

My friend ended up taking the lead singer home with her, while I spent the night with James. The next morning, I popped back to her halls to pick up my things, but instead of heading straight home I secretly went back to him.

It was obvious James was a player; he didn’t make any pretence of wanting to find out anything about me, beyond what turned me on, which was fine by me. Back then, I was young and wild myself; I wasn’t looking for more than a bit of meaningless fun.

When I left his flat more than 24 hours later, we didn’t exchange phone numbers. This was before social media, so there was no way of snooping on each other’s lives or getting back in touch.

As we waved goodbye through the window of the train taking me home, I didn’t even know his surname. And I was blissfully unaware that he came from a town just a bus ride away from where my own family lived.

That would have been the end of it, had I not, a couple of years later, met his brother, Michael, at the accountancy firm where we’d both started working as trainees.

Both 21 and single, there was a spark of instant attraction between us. I have wondered since whether it was kindled for me, on some subconscious level, by my long-buried memories of the time I spent with his sibling.

But beyond feeling like I vaguely recognised Michael’s voice – which I later discovered is uncannily similar to his brother’s – there was nothing to link my new boyfriend to the lover I had every reason to believe was firmly contained in my past. 

Though I now see the family resemblance (they share the same sharp cheekbones and dark eyes) it wasn’t strong enough to hold my attention.

Michael and I soon got serious. After a couple of months, he took me to meet his family at a send-off party for his older brother, who was about to spend a year overseas. ‘You’ll probably fancy him,’ he joked. ‘Most girls do.’ 

He said James was a bit of a rogue, before confiding that he’d always felt a bit dull when he compared himself to him. ‘I’m not interested in your brother,’ I told Michael, oblivious to the mortification awaiting me. ‘Just you.’

We were the last to arrive. At the sight of Michael, James dropped his spatula and strode over from his spot at the barbecue, arms wide open. I stood rooted to the spot as I watched them warmly embrace, wondering whether I was imagining the scene playing out in front of me.

James then moved past Michael to say hello to me. As our eyes met, I saw the same flash of recognition hit him.

Yet he kept his composure. ‘Saran!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ve heard so much about you. It’s so good to meet you.’

And in that moment, as he hugged me with the same arms I’d once spent the night in, it felt like it had been decided – we would never mention to anyone else in the family that, actually, we had already met.

I felt relieved at his reaction. These were only the early days of my relationship with Michael, who I really liked. What we had already felt much more serious than anything I’d shared with other boyfriends, none of whom had taken me home to meet the parents.

If he knew I’d slept with his big brother, this relationship would surely implode. Meanwhile, his parents seemed like such lovely people. His mum kept fussing around me and making sure I felt at home. How would she feel if she knew I’d had both her boys?

And what would I have said? ‘Oh, it was just a fling, it meant nothing to either of us.’ I doubt she’d have been so keen to make me feel welcome after a revelation like that.

Yet I needed to be sure of what James was thinking. When he headed into the house to grab his cigarettes, I followed him inside, pretending to need the toilet.

‘Oh God Saran, I’m so sorry,’ he told me. ‘Should I have played it differently? I didn’t want to embarrass you. Do you want me to take Michael to one side and tell him the truth?’

When I told him I thought doing that would destroy what me and his brother had together, I felt conflicted – I was asking him to effectively lie to his brother.

But James agreed. ‘He’s already told me how much he likes you,’ he told me. ‘He’d be gutted if he knew I’d been with you. Let’s just pretend it never happened.’

James also pointed out that he would be out of the country for the next year. ‘It doesn’t need to be awkward,’ he said, and I agreed. In fact, the two of us have never discussed it since.

And actually, him not being around – out of sight, out of mind – really did make it much easier to keep quiet about this.

On the way home, Michael congratulated me on being the first girl he’d introduced to James who he hadn’t flirted with. ‘He must realise how much I like you,’ he told me, which made me feel dreadfully guilty.

Not guilty enough, though, to come clean. Of course, afterwards I told several of my girlfriends, who all roared with laughter at the awkward scene I painted.

But their reactions made this feel more like something funny to be kept between us, rather than a terrible burden to carry. They persuaded me that Michael didn’t ever need to know; that it was more a kindness than a betrayal not to tell him.

Meanwhile, James met a girl on his travels who tamed him; he went on to marry her and emigrated to Australia to be with her, which made things simpler still. It means we only see each other every few years, when he brings his family over for special celebrations.

These days, it rarely crosses my mind that perhaps we should have told Michael the truth at the start. Because, as thrilling as that brief assignation with his brother was, it doesn’t compare to the loving relationship he and I have.

We enjoy a great sex life of our own, have two wonderful children, and I love his parents like my own. If I’d confessed at any point, then all that would have been put in jeopardy, and to what end?

But though my rational mind understands all these things, I can’t pretend that the passing years have dulled James’s good looks. And whenever his eyes meet mine, like that cheeky glance over the roast potatoes, there’s no preventing the answering rush of desire I feel.

If Michael notices that anything is amiss, he’s never passed comment. It’s a good job, because this is one family secret I know I must take to the grave.

Saran Travers is a pseudonym. All names have been changed.