Wife with financial independence will NEVER tell her husband how rich she is

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Julia Lawrence says her financial independence is fundamental to her life
She deliberately tells her husband John knows nothing about her finances
Julia is 'nosy' about John's bank account and checks it regularly

Published: 18:07 EST, 9 September 2015 | Updated: 22:59 EST, 9 September 2015

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After 20 years of marriage, there's not an awful lot my husband doesn't know about me. My shoe and dress size. My National Insurance number and blood group. White wine, not red. Coffee not tea. Strictly, not X Factor.

But the contents of my bank account? He hasn't a clue. We may have agreed, before a priest and congregation of 200 people in 1995, to share our worldly goods with each other, but there's no way I am willing to submit to full disclosure when it comes to my money. No way.

I took my husband's surname, but I see my money as mine, earned by me, deposited into my bank account (or accounts. I'm not saying how many), to be spent by me on whatever I decide. To relinquish control of that, to hand over something so fundamental to my existence and well-being - even to someone whom I love and trust implicitly - is anathema to me.

Julia Lawrence, above, likes to stick to her guns regarding her finances, keeping her money separate

Weird? I don't think so - despite everyone staring, open-mouthed, when I reveal our arrangement. But I say John and I have got it right.

If more women stuck to their guns and retained a little 'no I don't want to actually' after they've said their 'I dos' - and maintained financial responsibility for themselves, instead of throwing themselves at the mercy of their other half - I think divorce lawyers would be booking slightly fewer expensive skiing holidays each year.

For in 20 years of marriage, John and I have not had one single row about money. Not one. None of those hackneyed scenes where the husband moans about his wife's expensive handbag habit to his chums down the club. No hiding shopping bags in the boot of my car. No spiriting away of credit card statements.

I've heard too many examples of marital strife caused by rows of this kind. A wife left high and dry by her husband gambling everything they owned - including the roof over their heads - on an ill-advised business scheme. A Porsche that suddenly turned up outside the house when the wife knew the husband couldn't afford to put petrol in their existing hatchback.

So in our marriage, I spend what I've got, and what I've got is my business. John knows that, and he seems quite happy with the arrangement.

He doesn't know how much I earn, although he could probably hazard a guess. He doesn't know the full extent of my savings. He doesn't know my pension, Isa or share arrangements. I operate a 'need-to-know' rule, and right now, John doesn't need to know - and doesn't ask.

All expenditure on the house, children, holidays and general family ebb and flow of cash is split down the middle, with no quibbling. There are exceptions, of course. When the boiler blew up a few years ago, I was having a good month and covered it. A new one was ordered and paid for before John even got home from work. He has shelled out similarly when the need has arisen.

That is why I was encouraged last week when I read a piece of research suggesting more couples are coming round to our way of thinking. Half of all married people don't know what their spouse earns. Men, it turns out, are the slightly less curious partners: only 52 per cent can cite with any degree of accuracy their spouse's salary, compared with 60 per cent of women.

Julia and her husband John on their wedding day. They are like-minded when it comes to money (collect photo)

Which brings us neatly to the next question people ask when I reveal my secretive side: does it work the other way? Do I know what John earns, or is he as 'weird' about money as his wife?

Well, I have to confess, I do know. I busted his online banking passwords years ago. I'm far too nosy, pessimistic and risk averse to leave that to chance.

Not that I check every withdrawal, or dream of challenging him over the ludicrous £2,000 he spent on that road bike (yes, I know about that, sorry darling). I just like checking in now and then to reassure myself all is well. And it is. He knows I spy and it doesn't bother him.

And I know he has shares and savings pots elsewhere. I don't know exactly how much, but just knowing they exist is a comfort.

There is another reason why our marriage has been as successful as it has: we are very like-minded people.

MIND THE GAP

The UK has the sixth largest gender pay gap in the EU. On average women earn 19.7 per cent less than men

I really don't think I could cope living with someone who didn't share my attitude to money - someone who saw nothing wrong in living their life stumbling from one financial crisis to the next - I'd have sniffed him out and rejected him long before we got anywhere near signing a marriage certificate.

So what has made me the way I am? Fastidious financial housekeeping is written in my DNA. I have what I term 'a working-class hangover'. My female ancestors learned the hard way to keep their pennies well hidden because their lives, and those of their children, depended on it.

Poor Suffolk farmers on one side, North London slum dwellers on the other, the women in my family knew hardship. A shortage of funds didn't mean rethinking a choice of party frock, it meant hunger - real, belly-aching, soul-sapping hunger.

They'd also learned not to rely on their husbands for cash. Working-class men a few generations ago were a pretty poor investment. They went to wars and didn't come back. They caught horrible industrial diseases. Their bodies wore out. They fell into agricultural machinery or in front of buses. They fell into pubs and down stairs.

Even with several thousand in my current account, I am drawn to the cut-price cabinet in the supermarket just in case I can save a few pounds

The women consequently left nothing to chance. Every female in my family has always retained her own source of income, and made sure she kept a tight hold on it. Great-grandma on my mother's side took in ironing and sewing, her eldest daughter - my nana, the wife of a gamekeeper on a big country estate - washed dishes after dinner parties 'in the big house'.

Mum worked nights as a nurse when my sister and I were tiny. Could she trust my dad with money? Of course she could. A sweet, humble, clean-living and hard-working motor engineer, he was hardly swanning off to the Playboy Mansion every weekend - but like her mother before her, she worked hard to ensure she wasn't wholly reliant on him.

There is a darker theory behind my desperation to be prepared. Before I met John, my dad was killed in a road accident, in which I too was injured. Shrewd and level-headed, Mum coped. Everything was in order, she kept our house and standard of living. It taught me a valuable lesson. It's always best to expect the worst, because it can and does happen - often to lovely people who least deserve it.

And so the legacy continues under my roof. Firmly middle-class now, we've come a long way from the hunger of my ancestors, but my 'disaster fund' continues to mount.

Recently, John and I were at a smart drinks party, standing with a group of lovely, successful couples, discussing school entrance exams and gym membership, when one husband bragged how he'd bought his wife a Birkin handbag for Valentine's Day. My eyes met John's and we shared a knowing smile.

Julia and her husband with their children John, far left, and Lois, left. Even when her children were small, Julia ensured that she worked enough hours to be able to pay her way so she has a 'disaster fund'

John knows I would be livid if he bought me a Birkin - or any stupidly expensive handbag.

How could any self-respecting woman feel comfortable accepting such a vulgar gift? She might as well be branded with a 'sold' sign. It's just posturing, to other men and other men's wives.

A peacock strut with bits of over-priced leather instead of feathers. 'Look what I can afford and you can't', it says to anyone daft enough to listen. If I want a Birkin - and trust me, I don't - I'll jolly well buy one myself, thank you very much.

Gifts, for me, are all about thought. John recently found a rare, 12-inch vinyl record of a Smiths song I'd adored as a teenager, and got the children to present it to me on Mother's Day.

For my birthday last year, he imported from Spain a giant, industrial tin of banderillas - spicy, pickled vegetables on a stick, which always remind me of our family holidays on the Costa Brava, and which are impossible to find here.

Julia prefers her husband John to buy her meaningful gifts, rather than expensive ones

Both gifts made me so happy, I could have burst.

Only once has he slipped up: years ago, when I was on maternity leave after the birth of our son Joe, who's now 15, John bought me a new summer mac.

He hated my old scruffy one, guessed my reserves were running a little low, and presented me with a new one.

It was a sweet gesture, but I just didn't like it. I knew my mac was nearing the end of its life, but I also knew I'd be back at work soon, and able to afford a new one in my own good time.

It upset the balance in our relationship. For a millisecond I was dependent and vulnerable. I've still got the mac somewhere, and I have never enjoyed wearing it.

I have never been dependent on John and hope I never will be. Early on, I made sure I saved enough to pay my way when I cut back my hours when the children were little.

I'm also a brilliant economist: I've never been in debt, always paid off my credit card each month and - like my grandma before me - could feed us all on a pittance if needed.

Even with several thousand in my current account, I am drawn to the cut-price cabinet in the supermarket just in case I can save a few pounds.

On nights out, I make sure I don't get stuck for a big round, and when I fancy the odd cigarette, I steal one from a friend's stash.

It all adds up: friends tease me about the 'money mountain' they assume I have hidden. They over-estimate me: I wouldn't call it a mountain - more a hillock. But it does exist.

I know John and I have been lucky. So far, neither of us has been without work for any length of time. Also, we remain on a fairly level pegging, salary-wise, which keeps things simple.

If I won the Lottery, would I dig my own swimming pool, buy my own yacht and charge John entrance? Of course I wouldn't. I would share it with those I love.

Likewise, if the financial rug was pulled from under either of us, the other would step in. We'd look after each other, and I am greatly comforted by the fact that I could look after John just as efficiently as he could me.

My only regret is that I don't seem to have passed my tendencies on to my children. Joe and Lois, who's 18, cringe if they spot me rummaging through the discounted food section. Money seems to pour through their hands, and I know it's my fault for providing for them too well. Affluent and profligate, the working-class hangover seems to have stopped with me.

A common criticism of me is that I'm too uptight about money, that life is too short and I should learn to enjoy it a bit. You can't take it with you, and all that.

Well, I do enjoy my money. Comfortable house, nice holidays, the odd splurge now and then (although not on a Birkin bag).

The fact I don't have my husband looking over my shoulder, questioning every receipt and passing judgment, makes me enjoy it all the more.

And if it all goes wrong, if John falls under a bus or decides to run off with his PA - or indeed if I run off with my PA - I have my disaster fund. I know I'll be OK.