Free Gangsters' Wives by Tammy Cohen Page A

notoriously insular British expat community – meant that when I left school I had little trouble finding work. I was offered a job in an upmarket property company specialising in top-end real estate.
    One day I was in the office, air conditioning on full to guard against the blazing heat outside, when the door opened. In walked a tall, dark-haired, immaculately dressed man in his early thirties. I was only eighteen, in fact it was my birthday that very day, but even so I realised from the gleaming black car he’d pulled up in, and the gold Rolex watch on his wrist, that here was someone of importance.
    He wanted to rent a house, he told me. Somewhere private. As we began talking and I started showing him photographs, I became increasingly aware of how attractive he was, with his soft Irish accent and ready smile. His name was John and, although he was fourteen years older than me, I was young and easily impressed by his clothes and obvious wealth, and flattered by his interest in me.
    After that first meeting John went away on holiday, but as soon as he got back he called me up at the office. I was thrilled, particularly when he came to pick me up at my parents’ house in a sleek sports car before whisking me off for champagne cocktails. I felt like I’d been plucked from obscurity and straight onto the set of a movie. This was what being adult was all about and I loved it.
    I was so smitten with John that when he asked me to move in with him on our third date, I didn’t hesitate. At that time I didn’t know what he did. I hadn’t asked him. Growing up on the Costa del Sol, you learn never to question people too closely about how they make their money.
    Of course I knew there was something not quite right about him. From the beginning it was obvious he didn’t go out to work from nine to five every day. He seemed to spend most of the day at home, then he’d come to pick me up from work and we’d go out, but there would be telephones ringing all the time, and he’d keep going off into corners to talk to people. I knew that often he’d go out somewhere after dropping me off.
    But I was so young, I didn’t really care about what he did. I was more interested in the lifestyle he enjoyed and the astonishing fact that someone like him could be interested in me. Of course, now I know that what he saw in me was someone naive enough to be moulded into whatever he wanted and young enough for her loyalty to be bought, but at the time I thought his attention meant I was somehow sophisticated and glamorous.
    I gave up work when I moved in with John. It was his idea, but I didn’t put up much of a struggle. At eighteen, when you’re given a choice between getting up at seven to go to work and staying in bed before spending the day shopping or having lunch, there’s really not much contest. I didn’t see it as giving up my independence – he said he wanted us to spend more time together and he had plenty of money, so why not?
    It wasn’t long before the subject of how he made his living came up and I discovered he was a drug smuggler, although I didn’t realise at first how big-time he was. I’m ashamed to say it now, but I didn’t really think that much of it when he told me. By that stage I was so in love with the guy I’d have overlooked anything. I’d never experienced anything like that before. Coming from such an ordinary family, he seemed so exciting, I was able to push everything else to the back of my mind.
    I never really agreed with drugs, but I could justify what he did by reasoning that if he didn’t do it, someone else would. He always told me that he didn’t create the demand, he just supplied it.
    I was completely swept away by him. I’d never been with anyone before who jetted off to New York for the weekend, and flew first class and kept champagne stacked in the fridge like it was bottled water. I was wilfully blind to what it all meant and where it all came from.
    The first months together