My husband the alcoholic

I stared at the picture of Alex Best, pale and numb, following the news that her husband George was drinking again. It was a look I recognised: I felt sick with pity and full of bad memories. On the morning of our wedding, my fiancé was found by his father, sprawled naked on the floor, after a day of drinking wine, whisky and lager, "to celebrate". Of course, when you're an alcoholic, every day is a celebration.

I met Phil Robinson seven years ago, through work. He wrote for Loaded magazine (the so-called Lads' Bible) which I, being a well-behaved sort of girl, found rather cool and thrilling. He was the funniest man I knew. He was irreverent, loud, and intelligent. He spent a lot of his time in pubs and places where you were expected to drink. He was the epitome of a lad, but a gentleman to me. I was charmed.

At first, I didn't see the drinking as a problem. All of his friends drank, it was normal. I, meanwhile, became incoherent after two glasses of red, but if I drank with him, I felt I wasn't such a square, I could have fun too.

It soon stopped being fun, though. Because I had no interest in alcohol, I didn't understand people who did. Which made it easy for Phil to drink quite staggering amounts without me realising. Like Alex Best, I would notice a difference in my husband's behaviour now and then, and suspect that he wasn't being entirely truthful. But committed alcoholics are too sophisticated to roll home stinking of drink. Phil would happily admit to having had one pint before leaving the office, he'd just forget to mention the seven Jack Daniel's and Cokes that preceded it.

I wanted to argue with him but I didn't want the screaming row that inevitably ensued. When you love someone, you will block your ears to ensure the relationship survives. It helped that Phil confined most of his drinking to when he wasn't with me. He spent months of the year working abroad where, presumably, he drank as much as he pleased.

But he knew he was letting me down, so he'd try to make up for it. Once, when away, he left me a note: "Turn on the CD player." It was Elvis ... You Were Always On My Mind. When there were thousands of miles between us, we just about burst with love for each other. It was when we were in the same room there was a problem.

That said, when we went to Italy for a week, he did most of his glugging after I had gone to bed. (His bar bill totalled £600, more than the cost of our lake-view room). I tried not to mind, because when he was in a good mood, he was an amusing drunk. I have a photo of him doing a fine imitation of a walrus - on all fours with two bananas poking out of his mouth - to prove it.

I could excuse such behaviour when we were on holiday: we were on holiday. But, back in London, he embarrassed me. My insides curled when I saw the headline this weekend: "Alex Best, embarrassed for family of donor". It rang so true. You squirm to your very soul at how alcohol changes the person you love from kind and considerate to selfish, mean and thoughtless.

Once we met some friends at a Mexican restaurant, and Phil was rude to the waiter. I was mortified, for him and for myself. This was not the man I fell in love with. But I was too weary to fuss.

Equally, I would rather he hadn't stomped up and down on the roof of a Jaguar after a birthday party. And I watched patiently as my darling ran along the road, changing people's doormats. I made him run along, changing them all back. I felt like his mother - although, he showed her more respect than he showed me.

When I suggested that he try to cut back on the booze, he denied he had a problem and turned it into a wholesale row about us. I couldn't confront him without being accused of nagging, and wanting to end the relationship. One thing I was certain of was his fidelity, or I would have left him. I knew he wasn't interested in other women. He didn't need additional whining.

The pain on Alex Best's face drags me back to my bad times. I felt helpless. I remember staring over the kitchen sink, my heart pounding in useless rage, wanting to run - anywhere. But I couldn't. We were stuck. I couldn't leave him, I loved him too much. And I knew he loved me. He just loved alcohol more.

I never doubted that Phil was my ideal partner (not even when I chucked a bucket of water over his head after finding him unconscious on the floor one morning). We decided to go on a second honeymoon, a year after getting married, because on our first, Phil had whiled away many a romantic evening watching The Seven Samurai and drinking cocktails out of wooden carved owl mugs.

Phil agreed to quit drinking for our fortnight in Greece. "I didn't drink today," he announced on the third evening. But I had counted seven drinks he'd consumed. That night, he started crying and didn't stop. He was going to leave me. He loved me, but I made him so unhappy.

We caught an emergency flight home, and Phil saw his GP, who diagnosed him as an alcoholic.

"I am an alcoholic," announced Phil with genuine surprise and disgust. "You married an alcoholic."

"I married you," I said. I wasn't as upset as he was. I was relieved. Now, it was official. (Although I was glad the doctor was male, or maybe the doctor would have been accused of nagging).

Phil was also diagnosed with depression, which was exacerbated by the alcohol. His psychiatrist asked him how many drinks he thought was too many for an alcoholic.

"Twelve?" said Phil, hopefully. "One," replied the man. Phil tried to give up drinking, but no one made it easy. Drinking is an essential part of being a straight British male. If you don't drink, you are boring, no fun, gay perhaps? You make your mates feel guilty, resentful, uncomfortable. They don't like you any more. A number of Phil's alleged friends couldn't rest unless he had a drink. It made me hate them. After three months he relapsed at a wedding. I remember him sobbing in my arms afterwards. I think of the person who served George Best and I hope he rots.

Phil decided to avoid pubs and clubs. His real friends would come to him. And they did. With cognitive behavioural therapy, and awesome will power, Phil quit the drink. I think he realised his own potential, the potential of our relationship. Meanwhile, I realised that I trusted him. That moment marked the end of quite an era.

What he has since achieved speaks for itself. His first novel, Charlie Big Potatoes (published by Macmillan), is a best seller here and in the US. He is the proud, if tired, father of our darling Oscar, 15 months. He is funnier, happier, than when he was on the booze. He realises (to his slight surprise) that he loves his life. It isn't easy to relinquish one's escape route, but Phil sticks with it because he knows what he has to lose.

And yet, it astounds me, the ignorance of some people. Recently, there was an open day at a local primary school. The headmistress offered Phil a gin and tonic. He asked for an orange juice.

"What," she said. "A big man like you?" Presumably, big men (as opposed to small, wimpy ones) drink.

Well, you have to be a big man to resist the crushing pressure that British culture places on all men to drink. I am proud of Phil for his strength, and I am so, so sorry for George and Alex Best.

Behaving Like Adults, by Anna Maxted, £6.99 Arrow.