Confessions of a cheater: The 12 words that quell my wife’s suspicions. How I’m getting away with it. The one thing I fear. And why I can’t resist. Yes I’m unrepentant, says Peter… so would you be

You wouldn’t think a Christmas gift tag could destroy your life, but it could mine. If the one addressed to my mistress Amanda was accidentally attached to my wife Helen’s present, my world would come crashing down.

Not only would I be out on my ear at home, but I dread to think of the impact on my career.

Of course, as a corporate banker with a personal assistant, I don’t do the wrapping – or indeed buying – of gifts myself. That’s why vigilance and discretion are key in a good PA.

One year a former PA did make the mistake of labelling the presents with Post-it notes saying ‘wife’ and ‘mistress’ so I’d know which was for which person. Without telling me. Bloody Nora! Did she do it on purpose? I do wonder. Thank goodness I spotted the labels before I placed my wife’s present under the tree.

Shocked by my cavalier attitude to infidelity? Don’t be. More men than would ever let on are doubtless juggling a wife and mistress too. Perhaps even your own husband.

With client meetings and corporate dos all over the country, we businessmen can sneak away with our mistresses with ease. But spare a thought for us at Christmas, because that’s when it gets tricky.

From hiding present purchases to slipping away for ‘early’ Christmas celebrations, not forgetting placatory calls on the big day itself, there is so much room for error.

But after surviving ten Christmases as a cheating husband, I like to think I’m something of an expert.

One thing that goes in my favour is my appearance. I’m 52 with a dad bod, bald head, a dreadful taste in socks, and I love a bit of dad dancing at the office Christmas party floor. To look at me, you would never imagine someone as beautiful as Amanda, who’s nearly 20 years younger, would be interested in me.

But I’ve got the gift of the gab and I excel at sweet-talking women, including my wife when, after a few drinks, she starts to ramble on about her suspicions… I just say, ‘why would I cheat when I have the perfect package at home?’

Then I remind her of what a smart woman she is and that if anyone would be approached, it would be her not me. It usually does the trick!

If I sound heartless, I’m really not. Honest is more the word I would use to describe me. Men just weren’t designed to be faithful. When a woman marries a wealthy man, she should know that a mistress comes with the territory.

As for the mistress, she should know that family always come first – Christmas Day will always be spent with Helen and our two girls – and that she will probably be replaced at some point. At the risk of sounding crass, mistresses have an expiration date don’t they?

I’m no anomaly in my family line either. Both my father and grandfather sowed their seed too. I’m grateful Mum turned a blind eye because that meant there was no shuttling back and forth between divorced parents. We were all happy, including Dad’s mistresses over the years. I recall even getting a Christmas present from one of them.

I believe Helen and Amanda are happy, too.

Helen and I met at university and have always rubbed along well together. She’s pretty in that Nigella Lawson way; busty and with a kind face. She sees the good in everyone and is extremely maternal. If you were to ask Helen, I’m confident she’d say we have a strong and happy marriage – and we do. We still have sex every weekend.

Even if Helen, now 53, carries an awful lot more timber than she did when we first met, I still find her attractive. She’ll always be my Helen but is she still a 10 out of 10? No woman in their 50s is.

Nonetheless our love life is functional and at times fun. But having sex with one woman for the rest of my life was never going to be enough for me.

I’ve never even contemplated the prospect that Helen could take the same approach. I genuinely don’t think she would be able to attract a lover at her age.

But we have a comfortable home outside Stratford-upon-Avon, Warwickshire, as well as a holiday home in Greece. Now our children have left home and we’ve paid off the mortgage, Helen doesn’t need to work for a living.

She has ensured our daughters, aged 21 and 18, have grown into brilliant, clever, kind young women. They’re both at university studying history of art and modern languages respectively.

Meanwhile, I’ve been the breadwinner and am very generous with gifts. You could call them pangs of conscience but I have always been good with presents.

This Christmas Helen has asked for a pair of Le Chameau leather-lined wellington boots. Entirely unsexy, eminently practical, selfish of her perhaps (they do nothing for me), but they cost me over £400.

Amanda, on the other hand, has suggested I acquire something we can both have fun with – French lingerie from Parisian brand Eres. Yes it’s double the price of my wife’s present, but believe me, they’re worth every penny.

It won’t surprise you that Amanda is not my first mistress. The first time I was unfaithful was 18 months into our marriage.

We were trying (and trying) to start a family and Helen went into functional sex mode. To watch your wife lie on the bed with her legs up in the air (to help conception) is a passion killer. Not what I signed up for when we exchanged vows. So I didn’t feel guilt at all.

During my 30s, I had a mistress for five years. Since then I’ve probably slept with at least 20 different women – all younger, obviously – including Amanda. I first met her when she started as a junior in my department a decade ago. I took her under my wing in more ways than one. Did I cross a professional, ethical line? Oh please, there’s none of that #MeToo nonsense in my world.

Our affair began on a visit to a client’s site, where they produced organic beauty products. Amanda really knew their world and I was impressed at how she ran their numbers.

Over dinner at the hotel that night, she touched my arm and I didn’t remove it. Soon her hand was on my inner thigh. And when she suggested drinks in her room, I couldn’t leave the table quickly enough.

I was 42 and she was a lithe 25 with legs that went on for ever and no body hair (I was fascinated to learn her generation get it all lasered off in their 20s). Having sex with a younger woman is never not mind-blowing. And a massive ego boost.

From then on we’ve had sex at least once a week, either at hers or a five-star hotel. I’d never bring her home; I might be highly sexed but I’m not stupid.

Amanda has become my professional plus one, accompanying me on countless trips over the years. Now 35, she still has a figure that could coin it on OnlyFans.

What’s in it for her? She rinses me – we both accept this.

Over the years I’ve bought her a Tiffany necklace, Louboutin shoes, a Gucci handbag, a fancy coffee machine – one year she even asked for a £3,000 Pilates Reformer machine.

Try squaring that with your wife when the call from the delivery men comes through on your personal phone. (It goes without saying that I have a separate bank account, which she can’t access.) I fudged it, saying it was a piece of gym equipment that my physio said I needed, but which mysteriously never materialised.

These days Amanda is more into gorgeous underwear (lucky for me) or investment pieces of art, including those dreadful neon creations of phrases such as ‘All You Need Is Love’.

We celebrate our own Christmas the second week of December when we go away for the weekend. This year, for our tenth anniversary, it was a spa hotel in the Cotswolds.

We had Amanda’s version of a Christmas dinner; she doesn’t do carbs. In the past, we’ve had sushi and a ‘locavore’ spread (me neither – but it’s hyper-local, organic food, using often-foraged ingredients). Well, I’m not exactly there for the food.

Afterwards we retired to our suite complete with jacuzzi on the terrace and exchanged presents over a bottle or two of fizz. I usually spend a few thousand on the weekend alone but I do put as much as possible on my expenses.

As corporate dos kick in from the end of the November, Helen knows I’m out at least four nights a week in the run up to Christmas.

In the past I’ve invited her to work events, but she’s a country girl at heart and can’t abide the idea of a night out in the city or a stuffy hotel reception do.

Of course there is always an element of risk. One year I took Amanda to Edinburgh and we bumped into one of Helen’s friends. That was awkward. I explained that Amanda and I were on a work trip visiting a local distillery. I got away with it – just.

There was another occasion, five years ago, when we were nearly rumbled. I was staying at Amanda’s flat for the night (supposedly on a jolly golfing weekend abroad) when I got a call to say Helen had been involved in a car accident.

Helen couldn’t understand how I’d reached her bedside so quickly but I told her I’d missed the flight due to traffic delays. I’m ashamed to say I put her confusion down to the concussion.

Even my daughters don’t suspect a thing. They met Amanda five years ago at the annual work summer do and they adore her. She always talks to them and is a bit of a cool big sister to them, and has taken a genuine interest in their school and career trajectory. I know they follow her online.

Call me naive, but it just wouldn’t occur to them that their father could pull someone as hot as Amanda. I don’t dwell on the fact I am pulling the wool over their eyes, too.

Helen has had her suspicions over the years. Usually when she’s had a drink, the accusations tumble out. I promise to work less and usually organise a weekend away for us to ‘reconnect’ or ‘be present’ for one another. I know the phrases to use.

She too has met Amanda at work events, but it’s one-night stands she worries about. I would genuinely render her speechless if I told her that Amanda and I are sleeping together. Sorry, but I wouldn’t feel a bit guilty.

As for Amanda, thankfully she’s not particularly clingy. The only times we have a run-in is when her girlfriends goad her, saying she’s wasting the best years of her life with me. Most of them are settled down, married and having children. In other words they’re jealous of how well I treat Amanda.

These conversations usually happen during ‘Twixmas’ when Amanda is on her own. I do try and see her, for at least lunch (and sex), but I can never make any promises. And when she repeats what her bitchy girlfriends have said, I gently remind her that this has always been the set up between us. And nothing will change.

A divorce is unthinkable. I’m not leaving Helen, being stripped of everything we’ve created, downgrading to life in a poky bachelor flat, handing over half of my pension and alienating my daughters in the process.

It’s not so much that I’d miss Helen, but I’d miss the life we have created together. I don’t lift a finger at home and I have Helen to thank for that.

And I’m very definitely not becoming a father again (I can’t, anyway, I have had the snip). Amanda knows the score. I don’t know if she wants a child; I swerve those kinds of conversations.

Of course I appreciate that she’ll settle down into a proper relationship with another man when she does want a family. When that happens I’ll be genuinely sad. She’s a fantastic woman.

For now, Amanda lives in a one-bedroom apartment in a trendy area of the Midlands. When she’s not in the office, she’s in the gym. Her Instagram account consists mainly of ‘thirst’ shots – deliberately designed to attract attention – of her lifting weights or selfies after she has finished working out. And this is why my daughters love her – they think she’s an inspiration.

Amanda and I keep in contact throughout the day via my work mobile. My private one is reserved for Helen and the girls, and the domesticity of married life. Amanda doesn’t even have that number.

Perhaps the most dangerous part is that our affair is not a secret from everyone. I reckon as many as 12 people know about us at work. And of course not everyone approves.

I had to let one assistant go because she took the moral high ground, refusing to book restaurants or make hotel reservations for my liaisons with Amanda. I definitely didn’t need a lecture from someone who reports to me on how I should live my life.

Running a life with a wife and a mistress means having a reliable wingman on board is non-negotiable. That’s why my current assistant – male, gay, yet wonderfully discreet – is perfect. The soul of discretion, he has excellent taste and can always be relied upon for organising thoughtful gifts throughout the year for both Helen and Amanda.

If I feel any guilt, it’s that I’m not with Amanda on Christmas Day. Does she deserve better? Possibly. I do love her, but it’s different to the love I have for my wife and family.

As for me, this year I’ll be having my Christmas cake and eating it for the tenth year in a row. And if your husband sneaks off for five minutes to walk the dog after Christmas lunch, chances are he’ll be phoning his mistress, too.

Peter Henson is a pseudonym. Names and identifying details have been changed. As told to Samantha Brick.