If Alex could see our flat now, he would weep. Two kids and a dog take their toll on interiors

I wish I lived here with him,’’ I think, as I stare in disbelief at the “high spec” craftsmanship of the West London mansion Alex is doing up. He has taken me over to admire the giant marble bathroom and sweeping staircase in walnut. “Wow,” I keep saying over and over again like I’m a broken record. It’s hardly a romantic date, but at least I get to hang out with him. After our last romantic tryst, I’ve hardly seen him.

He’s definitely got creative talent, I think, as he sizes up a room and visualises how it will look in a second. Well, that’s his job as project manager over for the day – apart from having to order materials and pay his men.

If Alex could see our flat now, he would probably weep. Two kids under five and a rampant dog have taken their toll on the interior. Alex had decorated our flat up in neutral tones, which doesn’t suit Muggles; he even took a chunk out of Alex’s velvet sofa after he died.

He simply wouldn’t recognise the place if he walked in now, with its chewed-up skirting boards and the dog poo-infested garden. Let alone the presence of Lola and Liberty, the children he has never met, monopolising the TV watching Paw Patrol and PJ Masks. The freezer is no longer full of his favourite foods – steak and prawn linguine – but overrun with fish fingers and Quorn cocktail sausages.

There was a time when people would come over and be impressed by our open-plan kitchen/living room. That was before it was piled high with scooters, bikes, Peppa Pig planes and trains, ride-on buses and dolls that wet their nappies – as if I don’t have enough problems dealing with the real nappy changing. There’s no room to think, which might be a blessing. If I sat down and contemplated the cost of two kids who will grow into teenagers, I might implode on the spot.

How I wish Alex was with me – flash with cash like when he got the job in Ladbroke Grove. He had his men swarming like ants all over the five-storey townhouse covered in ivy – rather like Jose Mourinho, watching from the sidelines and positioning his men all over the property, sorting out the underfloor heating and inspecting new sash windows.

Head builder Eddie and his sidekick Jurek warn me to be careful as I’m leaning on a freshly painted wall. But all I can think about is how ecstatic Alex is. He’s obviously in his element – is he finally happy? Or is it ego – he’s in control and powerful? Alex really had hit the jackpot with this job. The mansion belongs to a recovery friend of Alex’s, who told him that he will be paid cash-only. It is tons of cash – a real step up from the posh painting and decorating jobs he had previously done.

He no longer has to lift a finger and instead of wearing paint-splattered jeans and grimy boots, he is like a shining new button, in his chunky Prada jumper and leather slip-on shoes. Luckily he hasn’t abandoned his northern roots and his wry sense of humour, which is why I love him.

However, workaholism has definitely taken hold to the detriment of any balance in his life – and there is no time for us to potter around playing crazy golf with Simon or to watch Elizabeth on DVD in his bed anymore.

There is a saying in NA that “one is too many and a thousand is never enough”. And this clearly and worryingly applied to Alex’s newfound love of the crispy red £50 note. Yes, I admired his steely determination and aspirations; I could see us together in old age, living in a sprawling house with his art on the walls. Isn’t it supposed to be true that behind every successful man is a woman? Surely I am the missing ingredient to this coming to fruition? Can’t he see that? Obviously not.

But right now this new job is a wedge between us getting the show on the road. Although it gave him more confidence, which could have been good for his self-worth, it ultimately turned out to be his downfall.