Looking around my beautifully decorated flat in a fashionable part of London, I always feel an uncomfortable mix of emotions. Knowing it’s all mine,and I can afford the mortgage without renting out the spare room, makes me proud. It’s fi lled with glossy furniture, the latest gadgets and my wardrobes are bursting with designer clothes and bags. There are photos from holidays I’ve had in Bali and Hawaii, and pinned to the kitchen noticeboard is my booking for a spa break to Gleneagles in Scotland next month. I’ve worked had for this amazing lifestyle, climbing the ranks at a global consultancy firm in the City. I earn £95,000 a year and hope to be taking home a six-figure salary before I’m 35. Yet, it’s all tempered with guilt because the people in my life earn so much less than I do and can’t share this lifestyle with me. In fact, I feel so bad that, for the past couple of years, whenever I’m around my four best friends, I pretend to be poorer.
We all met at university and back then we were all in the same boat; broke, living off student loans and overdrafts, supplemented by part-time waitressing jobs. After graduating in 2008 we all moved to London to pursue different careers. I got a trainee position with a huge City firm with a starting salary of £30,000, while the others went into nursing, teaching, TV production and local government. They’ve all worked hard too, but the reality is that those industries don’t pay as much as mine, and today none of them earn even half my salary. It took a few years before the differences started to creep in. I had a lot of student debt to pay off, so despite my bigger salary, I didn’t have much more disposable income than my friends. We all lived together in a house share in a dodgy bit of London. We got the night bus instead of taxis and, come the end of the month, I was eating beans on toast just like them.
But as my debts cleared and my salary rose with each promotion, for the first time in my life I had money spare to treat myself. I could afford to shop for fun instead of necessities from H&M. I joined a private members’ club with a gym and pool. My ‘work friends’ were also earning good salaries and we went for meals at The Ivy, then to clubs like Mahiki, ordering rounds of cocktails without worrying about the bill.
At first, I was too caught up in the novelty of having money to really think about how different my life was becoming. It never occurred to me to hide things from my friends, and they seemed happy admiring my new Mulberry bag or listening to which celebrity I’d spied in a posh restaurant. But, gradually, tensions started to surface. Not long after, I suggested we book a girly weekend in Marbella to celebrate my birthday, emailing them all links to amazing villas and hotels. Clare*, a social worker, snapped at me, ‘Don’t be so ridiculous, Hannah, there’s no way the rest of us could afford that.’
'There’s ‘rich’ Hannah, who holidays in Dubai and New York with her work friends, has a personal trainer and never has to scrimp and save. And then there’s ‘poor’ Hannah, who my uni friends see'
Instead of feeling bad for putting my friends under pressure to spend money they didn’t have, I felt a flash of resentment that they were holding me back and I replied, ‘Calm down. I just thought it would be fun.’ Looking back, I cringe at myself for being so blindly insensitive.
I knew I was the highest earner in the group, but I never stopped to think that might be hard for the other girls, living with someone who had so much more fi nancial freedom than them. The first time that came into focus, we’d gone out for dinner and I thought it would be nice if I picked up the bill. Pretending I needed the loo, I sneaked off with my debit card and paid. I could easily afford it. But when I told them that dinner was on me, there was an uncomfortable silence. ‘Why would you do that?’ Laura*, a teacher, asked awkwardly. ‘We’re not charity cases, you know,’ another said, forcing a laugh. For days afterwards in our house there was an atmosphere between us; awkwardness on my part and irritation on theirs.
I realised then that my earnings were threatening our friendship, so I started to hide my lifestyle. I shopped in Tesco again instead of the pricey Whole Foods Market, I hid my Jo Malone bubble bath rather than leave it in the bathroom. I stopped telling them if I went out to a new restaurant after work and, if I had a shopping spree, I hid the bags in my wardrobe.
By playing down my lifestyle, the tensions between us went away, but privately I felt frustrated that I had to hide my success, as if it were a dirty secret. I didn’t even tell them when I got a big promotion, celebrating with colleagues instead. I decided the only thing to do was move out. I could stop concealing my lifestyle without risking my friendships. I had enough savings for a deposit and no problem getting a mortgage so, three years ago, I moved into my own flat.
But now it’s like there are two Hannahs. There’s ‘rich’ Hannah, who holidays in Dubai and New York with her work friends, has a personal trainer and never has to scrimp and save. And then there’s ‘poor’ Hannah, who my uni friends see. She wears high street instead of designer and keeps quiet about her latest holidays. I even fibbed and told them I had to take a pay cut to keep my job during the latest round of City redundancies, and now I moan about being broke. They’re not stupid, they know I earn a good salary, but they’d be shocked if they knew how much. Now we meet in restaurants or bars they choose and last year we had a cheap and cheerful girls’ holiday to Mallorca.
I don’t like deceiving people, and I feel angry and uncomfortable that I have to do this, but I think it’s saved our friendship. I may be lying to my friends, but it’s the price I’m willing to pay to keep them.
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*As told to Eigmear O'Hagan. Names have been changed