Dear Joely: I Said the Cruel Thing Out Loud at Dinner

Dear Joely,

I think I may have ruined a friendship over dinner.

A group of us were at a friend’s house on Saturday night — eight or nine people around the table, wine, food, everyone talking over each other in that way that feels fun at the time and unbearable when you remember it later.

One of my closest friends started talking about her ex again. They split up nearly a year ago, but he still comes up constantly. I have listened to hours of it. I really have tried to be kind. I know people don’t just stop hurting because their friends are bored of the subject.

But I’d had too much to drink, and when she started going over the same old ground, I said something like, “I don’t think you miss him anymore. I think you miss having him to talk about.”

The table went quiet.

She looked absolutely wounded. I tried to laugh it off, then tried to explain, which probably made it worse. The rest of the night carried on, but not really. You know when everyone is pretending things are normal and they absolutely aren’t?

I went home feeling embarrassed, but it wasn’t until 4:17 in the morning that the full horror hit me. I woke up wide awake thinking, What did I say? Why did I say it in front of everyone?

The awful thing is, I don’t know if I was completely wrong. Part of me does think she’s become attached to the drama of it. But I also know I was cruel. I could have said something privately, soberly, gently — or just kept my mouth shut.

She hasn’t replied to my message today.

Do I apologise properly, or will that just make it all bigger? And am I a terrible friend for being so tired of hearing about someone else’s heartbreak?

Still Cringing at 4:17am

Dear Still Cringing,

First of all, congratulations on discovering one of adulthood’s least glamorous truths: sometimes the thing that should have stayed inside your head comes out wearing a dinner-party voice.

Was it cruel? Yes, a bit.

Was it unforgivable? No.

Was it possibly true? Also yes, which is why it landed with such a thud.

That’s the trouble with drunken honesty. It often contains just enough truth to be dangerous, and nowhere near enough kindness to be useful. You didn’t say, “I’m worried you’re still hurting and I don’t know how to help.” You said, in effect, “I’m tired of your pain and I think you may be enjoying it.” At a table. In front of witnesses. With wine assisting the prosecution.

So yes, you owe her an apology.

Not a long, self-flagellating performance. Not a twenty-seven-message essay about your motives, your exhaustion, your guilt and the exact time your soul sat bolt upright in bed. She doesn’t need to manage your remorse as well as her humiliation.

Send something simple:

I’m really sorry for what I said at dinner. It was hurtful, and saying it in front of everyone made it worse. I had no right to embarrass you like that. I care about you, and I’m sorry.

That’s it. No “but.” No “I was just trying to say.” No “you have to admit.” No courtroom reconstruction.

The apology is for the way you said it, where you said it, and what it did to her.

Later — much later, if the friendship recovers and she invites real conversation — there may be room for the truth underneath it: that you love her, but you cannot be the permanent storage facility for one man’s emotional debris. Friends are allowed to have limits. Even kind friends. Even loyal friends. Even friends who have sat through every chapter of the breakup, including the director’s commentary.

But timing matters.

If someone is bleeding, you don’t start by saying, “To be fair, this carpet has suffered enough.”

For now, apologise cleanly. Give her space. Let her decide whether she wants to answer.

And no, you are not a terrible friend for being tired. You are a tired friend who said the tired part out loud, badly, after wine, under domestic lighting.

That is not a life sentence. It is a repair job.

Next time, if the same conversation starts circling the drain, try the sober version:

I love you, and I want to support you, but I think we might be stuck in the same loop. Can we talk about what would actually help you now?

Less dramatic than a dinner-table truth bomb, admittedly. But much kinder to the crockery.

With sympathy, and a glass of water before bed,

Joely

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: The Vixen Across The Road

Dear Joely,

Emotionally, I'm all over the place at the moment and I could really use your advice. I've been married for seven years to my husband whom I love very much. We're both 36. We're both Geminis. I work for a bank, he's a photographer. We live in a nice house, in a great area. We don't have kids yet, but I'd quite like to start trying soon.

Over the road from us lives a woman I would call a vixen. She's about 45 I'd say, and stunning. Lots of auburn hair and a very curvy body. Rumours in the neighbourhood are that she hosts certain get-togethers at her place. These involve couples and 'swapping'.

We're not into that. But the other day, when I got home from work, she was talking to my husband at our front door. When I asked him later what they were chatting about he avoided the question. I tried a few times, and it was like I'd never even asked. This made me cross.

I pushed the point again when we were in bed later. He eventually admitted that we'd been invited to a gathering at her place Saturday week. I got snippy. He shook his head and turned away from me. We've not mentioned it since.

I'm scared. I want to be the only one holding my husband's car keys.

Heckles Up

Dear Heckles Up,

First of all, let us be calm.

You have not yet lost your husband to the auburn enchantress across the road, nor has he been discovered dangling upside down from a chandelier with a stranger’s house key in his teeth. At present, all we know for certain is that your husband was approached at the front door by a woman with a reputation, and instead of answering his wife honestly, he chose the communication strategy of a nervous schoolboy.

That is annoying, yes. But it is not yet an orgy.

The real problem here is not the invitation itself. Adults are invited to all sorts of things in this life, from gallery openings to mild depravity. The problem is that your husband avoided the question. Then avoided it again. Then eventually coughed up the truth only after you pushed the point in bed, by which stage the whole thing had already acquired the atmosphere of a diplomatic incident.

That matters.

Because once a person starts acting evasive over something sexual, however hypothetical, the imagination does what imagination does best: puts on heels, pours a drink, and gallops straight into catastrophe.

You did, however, strike gold with this line:

“I want to be the only one holding my husband’s car keys.”

That is deranged in exactly the right way. I salute it.

But your real task is not to seize the keys. It is to seize the truth.

At a calm moment — not in bed, not in a huff, not while glaring through the curtains at the vixen’s hydrangeas — say this:

“The invitation is one thing. What bothered me was that you dodged me when I asked. I need honesty from you, even when the subject is awkward. So tell me plainly — what did you feel about it, and why didn’t you just say so?”

And then, crucially, listen to the answer.

It may be that he was embarrassed, flattered, intrigued, awkward, or simply trying to avoid upsetting you. None of those are ideal, but they are not all equally sinister. The point is to find out which one it was.

Also, a useful question to ask yourself: are you frightened that he wants to go, or frightened that some part of him was tempted by being asked? Those are not quite the same fear, and knowing which one is haunting you will help you speak more honestly.

If he tells you clearly that he has no interest and simply handled it badly, then good. You can both laugh grimly about the swingers over the road and move on with your lives.

If he becomes slippery, defensive, or tries to make you feel ridiculous for minding, then I would pay much closer attention. Not because the neighbours are wicked, but because evasion is often more revealing than temptation.

In short: don’t catastrophise, but don’t ignore the wobble either. Talk properly. Demand honesty. And remember that the woman across the road may be a vixen, but she is not the issue if your own front door is sound.

Yours, in defence of candour and proper key management,

Joely

Dear Joely: Too Loud, Too Late, Too Attractive

Dear Joely,

I'm a 32 year old woman, living in an apartment block of eight units in Melbourne. I've been very happy here, except that about six months ago, the flat upstairs from me sold and a guy moved in that makes a lot of noise, often late into the night. He plays a sax and thinks nothing of practising until 1.30am. He also watches TV with the volume up really loud until all hours. It makes it hard for me to sleep.

To make it worse, I've seen the culprit collecting his mail a couple of times and he's actually really attractive, in a slightly wild sort of way. That aside, I feel like asking him to keep the noise down might annoy him and escalate the problem... and I really don't want that. On the other hand, my sleep and quality of life are being affected.

I'm having visions of becoming like Mr Heckles in Friends... letting my feelings be known with a broomstick.

I hope you can help.

Exasperated and Slightly Enamoured

Dear Exasperated and Slightly Enamoured,

Of course he’s attractive. These men are never a balding accountant in sensible loafers. They always arrive looking like they’ve been assembled by a casting director specifically to ruin your judgment.

Let me say this plainly: the fact that he is good-looking does not make him less of a pain in the arse.

Practising saxophone until 1.30am in an apartment block is not bohemian. It is antisocial. Watching television at full volume into the small hours is not free-spirited. It is selfish. He may be wild, but at present he is wild in the manner of a fox in a wheelie bin.

That said, your instinct is right. Going in blazing with a broomstick and a sleep-deprived speech about common decency is unlikely to produce a man who says, “My God, thank you for showing me the error of my ways.”

So. First move: calm, civil, direct.

Catch him in daylight, when neither of you is in your pyjamas and homicidal, and say something simple:

“Hi — I just wanted to mention that the sound travels quite a lot in the building, especially late at night. I’ve been hearing the sax and TV pretty clearly, and it’s been affecting my sleep. Would you mind keeping it down after about 10 or 11?”

That is not aggressive. That is normal adult communication. You are not asking him to stop existing. You are asking him not to turn your ceiling into Birdland at midnight.

If he is decent, that will be enough.

If he apologises and improves, excellent. You may continue finding him attractive from a safe emotional distance while also getting some REM sleep.

If he is vague, dismissive, or improves for three days and then resumes his late-night jazz odyssey, then you escalate in the least theatrical way possible: body corporate, building manager, strata, whatever version of adult bureaucracy your block runs on. Keep notes. Dates, times, type of noise. Boring, yes. Effective, also yes.

The key thing is this: do not let your slight enamourment convince you that you must be endlessly charming, understanding, or game about this. You do not owe a handsome nuisance extra tolerance. Quite the reverse. Beauty should be quiet after midnight.

And for the record, becoming Mr Heckles with a broomstick is a stage to avoid, not aspire to. Once you are striking the ceiling in a rage, the situation has already won.

Go and be polite. Then be firmer if needed. There is nothing unsexy about boundaries, and if he can’t cope with a neighbour asking for sleep, he is not nearly as interesting as his cheekbones suggest.

Yours, in defence of sleep and standards,

Joely

Dear Joely: I’m Not a Drunk, But

Dear Joely,

I’m not entirely sure why I’m writing to you, except that a friend of mine’s wife likes your column, which I imagine is about as glowing a recommendation as one can expect for an advice page.

In any case, I have a question, or possibly a problem, depending on how dramatic we’re being.

I think my drinking may be getting a bit out of hand. I say “may” because I’m still employed, still paying my bills, and not waking up in a hedge in Stevenage with one shoe missing. I’m not pouring vodka on my cornflakes, and I haven’t yet become the sort of man people speak about more quietly over Christmas lunch. So I do have some perspective.

That said, I’m drinking more often than I mean to, and more than I intend to once I’ve started. I’ve also begun waking up feeling woolly, thick-headed, and vaguely disgusted with myself more often than I’d like. A woman I was seeing recently told me she never knew which version of me she was going to get after a few drinks — the funny one, the moody one, or the one who suddenly wants to start an argument over absolutely nothing. I didn’t enjoy hearing that. Mainly because I think she may have been right.

So my question is this: at what point does “I should probably get a grip” become “this is an actual problem”? And before you say “go to AA” or “talk to your doctor,” I am aware those options exist. I’m asking whether you think this sounds like a genuine issue, or just a man in his fifties noticing that the body is no longer as forgiving as it once was.

You may well be the wrong person to ask, but I seem to have run out of the right ones.

Signed,

Woolly in Watford

Dear Woolly,

First, thank you for that stirring opening vote of confidence. “A friend of mine’s wife likes your column” is exactly the sort of endorsement every woman dreams of.

Men do so love to arrive at vulnerability wearing a fake moustache.

Now that we’ve both survived that, yes — I do think this sounds like an actual problem.

Not because you are waking up shoeless in a municipal shrubbery, but because your drinking is no longer behaving as a harmless supporting character in your life. It is changing your moods, your mornings, your relationships, and your own opinion of yourself. That is enough. You do not need to wait until you are pouring vodka on your cornflakes or being discussed in lowered tones over the Christmas potatoes before you are allowed to take it seriously.

Men in particular do seem to love the idea that a thing only counts once it has become catastrophic. Until then, it is merely “having a few,” “blowing off steam,” or “one of those patches.” This is often very convenient for them, and rarely for the people around them.

The woman who told you she never knew which version of you she was going to get did you a favour. Not a pleasant one, admittedly, but a favour all the same. If alcohol is making you unreliable to yourself and unpredictable to others, then I would stop fussing over whether the word “problem” feels too dramatic and begin with the plainer truth that something is not going well.

And yes, since you’ve pre-emptively rolled your eyes at the obvious advice, I’m afraid I’m going to be boring and sensible anyway. Start keeping proper count of how much you drink and when. Not your charming estimates — the real number. Then speak to your doctor, or a proper alcohol support service, or both. There is no medal for trying to out-stubborn a habit that is already beginning to cost you pieces of your life.

You ask whether this is a genuine issue or simply the body becoming less forgiving. I would suggest that if the body, your conscience, and at least one exasperated woman are all trying to tell you something at once, it may be worth listening.

And for the record, advice columns are not magic. They are simply one of the places people end up when denial has started springing a leak.

Yours, surprisingly sensibly,

Joely

Dear Joely: The Bedroom Goes Quiet

Dear Joely,

My wife and I have been married just over four years. It is a second marriage for both of us. I’m 53, she’s 49, and until recently we’ve always had a very active sex life. That’s partly why I’m so thrown by the sudden change.

For the past few months, she always seems to have a reason not to. She’s tired. She’s stressed. She wants an early night. She’d rather read, scroll, or disappear into a game than come to bed in any meaningful sense of the phrase. She’s friendly enough, and not cold exactly, but there is a distracted quality to her now, as though I’m approaching her from slightly too far away.

I’ve tried not to make a big performance of it. I’ve been patient. I’ve made dinner, brought flowers, made an effort. She seems touched by those things, but not moved in the direction I’m hoping for. The more I try, the more I begin to feel like a man laying rose petals in front of a door that isn’t opening.

So now I’m wondering what I’m meant to think. Is this just a phase in a marriage and I’m being oversensitive, or should I be worried there’s someone else?

Signed,

Missing My Wife

Dear Missing,

The first thing to say is this: a drop in desire is not, by itself, proof of a third party lurking in the shrubbery.

People go off sex for all sorts of reasons. Fatigue, resentment, distraction, hormones, low mood, buried irritation, feeling unsexy in their own skin, or simply getting stuck in a pattern where avoidance becomes easier than explaining what is going on. The human libido is not a punctual little clerk. It wanders off, goes silent, and sometimes needs coaxing back under less pressure than flowers and hopeful dinners can create.

That said, you are not wrong to notice the change, and you are not shallow for missing your wife in this particular way. Sex is not the whole of a marriage, but neither is it nothing. When it goes quiet without explanation, people start telling themselves stories. Usually unpleasant ones.

Before you leap to infidelity, I would ask a duller but more useful question: have you actually spoken to her plainly, without the bouquet, without the seduction campaign, and without making the conversation sound like a charge sheet? Not “Why don’t you want me?” Not “Is there someone else?” But something closer to: “I miss you. Something feels different between us. Is anything going on that I’m not seeing?”

Because at the moment you are trying to solve a communication problem with romance, which is understandable but often ineffective. A woman can enjoy a lasagne and still not want to take her clothes off. The flowers are not the issue. The silence is.

If she brushes you off repeatedly, refuses to talk at all, and leaves you alone with your increasingly inventive theories, then yes, you may have more cause for concern. But don’t promote yourself to detective before you have first tried being a husband in a chair, asking a difficult question and waiting for the real answer.

There may be someone else. There may equally be stress, sadness, menopause, anger, boredom, or some private knot she hasn’t yet untangled into words. Your job for now is not to guess correctly. It is to open the conversation without accusation and see whether she meets you there.

You say she is friendly. I would aim for something more intimate than friendly. Friendly is for baristas and neighbours. Wives should, at the very least, be reachable.

Yours, with a steady hand,

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