Dear Joely: I Kissed My Best Friend’s Boyfriend. What Now?

Dear Joely,

I hope you can answer me quickly. I’ve stuffed up. Badly.

I’m in my late teens. I’m lucky enough to have a best friend that I can share everything with. And she shares everything with me too. We both live with our parents still.

She has a new boyfriend — let’s call him Ross. She’s fancied him for a long time, and they finally got together.

She had a party at her parents’ place for her 18th. I was there, of course, and so was Ross. It was a fun party. Lots of booze, chips and party food — like a kid’s party but more fun because we’re all older and can legally do all the stuff we’ve always wondered about.

I was walking up the side of the house when I saw Ross. He saw me too. We looked at each other and before I knew what was happening we were having a passionate pash under a nearby tree.

Then of course my friend wandered out and saw us.

Personally, I don’t know why I did it. There were certainly no plans to do anything with Ross — I always just thought of him as her guy. This was a real spur-of-the-moment fuck-up.

My friend was so cool about it. I apologised, but her eyes are saying, “I love you but why would you do this to me?”

I have no answers and feel nothing but deep shame. I don’t want to carry on seeing Ross or anything.

What should I do?

A Really Crappy Friend

Dear Really Crappy Friend,

First things first: yes, you stuffed up.

There’s no elegant way to put lipstick on that particular pig. You kissed your friend’s boyfriend at her own eighteenth birthday party, which is very much not the behaviour of the bridesmaid in a feel-good film.

But — and this is important — one dreadful, stupid, impulsive thing does not have to become the permanent title of your character.

You already know the kiss was wrong. That’s good. Shame, unpleasant though it is, can occasionally do useful work. It tells us where the line was, and that we crossed it. The trick is not to pitch a tent in the shame and start calling it home.

What you do now is simple, but not easy.

You apologise properly. Not dramatically. Not with self-pity. Not with a long speech about how terrible you feel, because then she ends up having to comfort you, which is just adding unpaid emotional admin to her birthday betrayal.

Say something like:

“I am so sorry. What I did was wrong and it hurt you. I don’t have an excuse, and I’m not going to insult you by pretending I do. I care about you, and I understand if you need space from me.”

Then stop talking.

Let her be angry. Let her be quiet. Let her ask questions. Let her not ask questions. Do not chase forgiveness like it’s a bus you’re late for.

As for Ross, avoid him. Completely. No private messages. No “clearing the air.” No sad little conversations under trees about how confused everyone is. The tree has already done enough.

If he contacts you, keep it short:

“What happened was wrong. I’m not continuing this. You need to speak honestly with her.”

And then back away.

Your friend’s eyes are asking, “Why would you do this to me?” The truthful answer may simply be: because you were drunk, flattered, impulsive, curious, reckless, and briefly more interested in being wanted than being loyal.

That is not pretty, but it is human.

The repair, if there is one, will come from consistency. Not one perfect apology. Not tears. Not grand gestures. Consistency.

Be honest. Give her space. Don’t touch Ross. Don’t recruit mutual friends to plead your case. Don’t make yourself the victim of your own guilt.

You may lose some closeness for a while. You may lose the friendship. That is the price of the moment, and you have to respect it.

But you can also learn from it.

Next time desire, alcohol and opportunity gather under a tree, remember: trees are for shade, not betrayal.

With sympathy, but not a party invitation,

Joely

Dear Joely: An Inconvenient Crush

Dear Joely,

I am a woman in my late fifties and, until recently, believed myself to be beyond the age of behaving like a sixth-former with a biro and a pulse. Then I developed a crush.

It is not on a film star, which would at least be private and convenient. It is on a man I know in real life. He is charming, bright, entirely age-appropriate, and, maddeningly, just attentive enough to keep me flustered without doing anything so obvious that I can call the whole thing to heel.

Nothing has happened. He has not declared himself. I have not flung myself across a table. We are simply in that intolerable territory where eye contact begins to feel like an event and one finds oneself thinking far too hard about what to wear to somewhere that didn’t matter at all before he might be there.

Part of me feels thrilled to be capable of this sort of fizz at all. Another part feels faintly humiliated. I am too old, surely, to be mooning over a man like a girl in a ponytail. And yet I also resent the idea that desire should have an expiry date, as though one is meant to become a tasteful lampshade after a certain birthday.

So my question is this: should I enjoy the feeling for what it is and let it pass, or is there ever a dignified way to do something with a crush at my age?

Signed,

Unexpectedly Flustered

Dear Flustered,

First, let us bury the idea that desire is only attractive in the young. That is nonsense invented by people who prefer women to become decorative once they’ve learned a few things.

A crush in later life is not pathetic. It is inconvenient, certainly. Occasionally ridiculous. But also rather cheering. It reminds you that the shutters are not up, the blood still circulates, and your powers of anticipation have not been pensioned off to sit in a cardie by the fire.

The trouble with a crush is not the feeling itself. The trouble is what the feeling tempts you to do. It can turn an intelligent woman into an amateur codebreaker, forever analysing pauses, glances, and whether a man said “see you soon” with intent or merely manners.

So enjoy the quickening, by all means. Stand in front of the mirror a little longer. Feel your pulse misbehave. There are worse things. But do not build a cathedral out of crumbs. If he is interested, let him become clearer in ways that would be visible even to a woman who was not wearing your particular perfume and hoping for signs.

And if an opening genuinely presents itself, there is nothing undignified about warmth, wit, or a little well-judged boldness. The only thing I would avoid is tipping a whole bucket of fantasy over a situation that may yet amount to no more than pleasing chemistry and a decent jawline.

You are not too old for this. You are simply old enough to know the difference between delight and self-abandonment. Try to keep the first and avoid the second.

Yours, with eyebrows raised,

Joely

Dear Joely: Exit Group?

Dear Joely,

I’ve been added to a school WhatsApp group and I already hate it.

I know it’s meant to be useful, and sometimes it is, but most of the time it’s just endless messages about things that don’t seem to require that many messages. Every day there’s somebody asking something that has already been answered, or reminding everyone about something, or sending a stream of updates about snacks, costumes, pick-up times, forms, or who’s bringing what.

What gets me is that I can’t tell whether I’m being unreasonable or whether everyone else is just pretending this is normal. Some of the women in it seem to live there. They’re constantly replying, offering to do things, thanking each other, sending little kisses at the end of every message, and somehow making quite ordinary school admin feel like a full-time emotional ecosystem. I find it exhausting.

There’s also a certain tone in there that gets under my skin. It’s all very friendly on the surface, but I can never quite shake the feeling that there’s competition and judgement bubbling away underneath. I don’t want to be rude, and I don’t want to look unfriendly, but I also don’t want to spend my life reading forty-three messages about a missing drink bottle.

Is it acceptable to mute it, ignore most of it, or even leave altogether, or is that social suicide?

Signed,

One Ping from Murder

Dear One Ping,

The first thing I want you to know is that you are not oversensitive. You are having an entirely normal reaction to being trapped in a digital village square with no closing time.

WhatsApp groups of this sort are a very modern species of suffering. They begin in usefulness and end in low-grade occupation. A quick note about sports day becomes a hundred and forty-seven messages, three theories, one volunteer spreadsheet, and an undercurrent of feminine territorial warfare thinly disguised as helpfulness.

You are not obliged to enjoy this simply because it involves children and snack-sized administrative duties. Nor are you required to mistake access for intimacy. These groups create the illusion that because people can reach you instantly, they are therefore entitled to do so constantly. They are not.

Now, as to what to do. I would not dramatically leave unless you are genuinely prepared to be talked about by women in activewear for a fortnight. The elegant answer is almost always the less theatrical one. Mute the group. Archive it if necessary. Turn off previews. Remove it from the front of your mind and let the urgent things surface by other means, as truly urgent things usually do.

And if someone asks why you are a little quiet, you may say, perfectly pleasantly, that you are trying to spend less time on your phone. This has the additional advantage of sounding virtuous while being entirely self-protective.

What you must not do is get drawn into the false morality of constant responsiveness. There is a particular kind of social nonsense that thrives on women feeling they must always appear agreeable, available, and faintly delighted to help. It is a racket. Step outside it where you can.

You do not need to surrender your peace over a visor, a raffle roster, or twelve messages about whether Friday is mufti. Keep your manners, keep your distance, and keep the group on mute.

Yours, on mute,

Joely