“Falling in Love with a Young Pilot 40 Years Younger, Despite Children’s Fear of Losing Their Fortune – Love or Exploitation?”

While everyone seems to have an opinion on whether Bridget Jones should be with a man 20 years her junior in the latest film, there’s no doubt which side I’m on.

For 15 years, I’ve been caught up in a romance with a younger man – though the age gap between us is double that between Bridget and her toyboy.

Yes, my partner really is 40 years younger. When we first met he was in his 20s, though we didn’t actually become lovers until he was 35.

I’m well aware that everyone seems to find my situation shocking – perhaps even more so because I am a woman.

Even friends are against it. My girlfriends are sure he will break my heart, my men friends react as if they would happily kill him. And don’t get me started on my two grown-up children. They are outraged he is younger than they are – and may well be worrying about their inheritance.

I suppose it is just possible Rafael could have spent 15 years whispering sweet nothings in the expectation of some money, but I don’t care – we’re having far too good a time together. As for Rafael himself, he says I am recklessly young at heart.

Although I worry that our time is running out, he seems untroubled by the age discrepancy and forbids me to mention the fact I may die before him.

‘Anything could happen to either of us,’ he says. ‘Either of us could have a car accident, or become terminally ill.’

There’s no doubt I’m on Bridget’s side about having a younger man – especially as our age gap is double her and Leo’s!

He scolds me if I ask if I am looking older, ‘You are just Elizabeth and always will be.’

I think that’s the nicest thing one person could say to another. It shows that it’s me he cares about, not my physical appearance.

Naturally, Rafael is not English (he’s Spanish). Though attitudes seem to be changing, Englishmen of my generation never looked at a woman over the age of 29.

In America unless you have the nubile breasts of a teenager, not a single wrinkle and hair down to your waist, you are over the hill.

This is why so many older women spend a fortune on surgery, fillers, Botox and breast uplifts. Think Nancy Reagan, or Jocelyn, the bride of Wildenstein, even Jane Fonda.

I’ve never been tempted – I’d rather look like me. Strange as it may sound, I am more confident about my appearance these days than when I was younger. Of course I’d rather have the taut body of a 30-year-old, but I feel as if my looks and my personality are finally in step. Maybe that’s down to Rafael.

The fact is Europeans don’t seem to be obsessed with the quest for eternal youth. The French, Italians and Spanish like a woman with a bit of mileage on the clock. It smacks of sexual experience and the sort of emotional balance you rarely find in a youngster.

The older woman is unlikely to want babies, air fryers or dogs. We’re not keen on suffocating commitment either. I’ve been unhappily married and divorced and had several live-in relationships. Been there, done that.

I was in my 70s and had just retired from my career in advertising when I met Rafael. I was on a month-long holiday at a Spanish resort I’ve visited for decades, where I have lots of expat friends.

When we noticed each other, I was playing in the surf in my bikini. All his friends were playing football, but he was on his own, taking his surfboard down to the breakers over and over again. It smacked of perfectionism, perseverance and loneliness. I was intrigued.

Stunning, with a glistening tan, aquiline nose and a body toned from exercise, he was clearly young enough to be my son – in his 20s, as I was to find out. But there was something endearingly different about him.

As for me, I still wear a two-piece because it makes me feel free; you don’t have to look, if you don’t like it. But Rafael did seem to like what he saw. When he playfully splashed me in the surf, I thought that he might be fun.

As it turned out, he was working at my favourite beach restaurant. We started talking lightheartedly at the bar, and soon I was going there every day. He took to slipping me an extra glass of wine when the boss wasn’t looking. Soon we were meeting for coffees, chatting and gazing at each other. We even held hands and shared lingering embraces. But although there was clearly chemistry, I thought a relationship with such an age gap couldn’t possibly work.

I decided it was folly and went home without telling him. Although he emailed with news from time to time, I didn’t answer.

Back home, I got on with my life, dated sometimes – but I never found anyone like Rafael. Then my expat friends told me he had married and moved away.

Some five years after we first met, I returned to the resort and walked into the same beach restaurant, disconcerted to realise Rafael was still on my mind.

Suddenly, much to my shock, there he was walking towards me, arms outstretched, looking overjoyed. It was obvious from the electricity in the air that nothing had changed for either of us.

He hugged me tightly in front of everyone and said, ‘Why did you leave me?’

‘So you are married?’ I said accusingly. ‘Children?’

‘A son and a daughter,’ he replied.

I felt a pang of jealousy, but what did I expect?

Things felt different now. He had filled out; the charming boy had become a man. He had a good job managing the restaurant, so it no longer seemed like cradle-snatching.

But what could he possibly feel for a woman who was clearly getting no younger?

I suppose it is just possible Rafael could have spent 15 years whispering sweet nothings in the expectation of some money, but I don’t care – we’re having far too good a time together

At that point I was 78. Though I probably didn’t look it and certainly didn’t feel it. And I had never told him my age.

For the next couple of weeks, we continued meeting. We discovered we shared views on politics, religion, family – all the important things.

Then he put his number in my phone, showed me how to WhatsApp and said we must never be separated.

Such was the strength of feeling between us that, this time, the inevitable happened. We got pleasurably tipsy on the terrace of my hotel one night and he sneaked upstairs to my room.

Despite my fears I could never match up to his young Spanish lovers, when it came down to it, nothing mattered but the two of us.

We seem to be made for each other. He is quite different from most men I have known; calm, uncritical and very sexy. And so instead of flying home after the two weeks I’d booked, I stayed on for another month.

There were other trials to come. He turned out to have a Catholic conscience and though he fought with his wife, he didn’t like cheating on her. He often talked about leaving her, but I didn’t encourage it. We had such good fun together that I didn’t want to settle into irritable domesticity.

And perhaps because I’m not big on domesticity, I would rather be a mistress than a wife.

Besides, he still didn’t know how old I was. He finally found out after a couple of months when I inadvertently gave him my passport so he could book a flight for us both to France. But he didn’t seem surprised – perhaps he’d guessed, perhaps he really doesn’t care.

That wasn’t what caused our – temporary – break up. I suspected he couldn’t live with an extramarital affair and told him in that case, we’d have to call it a day. I didn’t want to ruin his home life, and much as I adored him I didn’t want him to be my responsibility either.

We had an almighty row – but within a week he was waiting for me outside my hotel. This time we decided that we would see each other on a platonic basis.

So the next time I went to Spain, my son and daughter came with me and we all had dinner with Rafael.

They didn’t know about our previous affair, but they loathed him from the start.

They hated the fact he was younger than they were, they despised his heavily-accented English. I expect, suspecting our closeness, they saw their inheritance going down the drain.

When they mentioned money, the loving relationship I share with them became strained. It was so upsetting that I went back to London determined to forget him, but we were soon speaking every night.

When he said,‘You like it so much in Spain, why don’t you come and live here?’ I decided to rent a little apartment in his hometown.

That was eight years ago. He started dropping by after his work and often stayed over. From that day on, we have hardly been separated.

I split my time between London, where I have friends and a compelling social life, and Spain, where I spend months at a time. The good thing about retirement is the freedom to come and go as I please. I never ask him about his home life; there seems little point. He has never told his wife about me but she may well sense something is going on. Do I feel guilty about that? No because since he has found happiness with me, he must be easier at home.

His marriage is one of duty not passion. But I know he will not let them down – and that suits me.

He gave me a cat and said, ‘Now you’ll never be able to leave.’ When I’m in London, he moves in to my Spanish flat and takes care of the cat and the plants he has given me.

A couple of years ago, he visited me in London, where we went to the opera and all my favourite restaurants. We considered getting him a job in one of them, but it didn’t seem a good idea in the end.

And so Spain is our home. We have driven from the top to the bottom of the country three times and still enjoy our intimacy, our romance.

Recently, I caught him running up the stairs to my apartment with a bunch of narcissi. ‘I know you love them, I wanted to surprise you,’ he said. I’ve never known anyone else who did that.

We call each other several times a day whenever we are apart, and we tell each other every day how much we love each other.

Sadly, the affair still arouses all sorts of ageist disapproval in my friends. ‘He’s playing the long game,’ they say. ‘He thinks he’ll inherit when you die. Why else would he spend time with someone old enough to be his grandmother?’

That’s plain hurtful, but I ignore them. They will never understand our connection and the way the world seems a better and safer place with him in it.

He tells me I have taught him a lot and indeed, while he still runs the restaurant, he has started a business degree and hopes to have his own business.

Meanwhile, he has taught me that Mediterranean art of taking things as they come. And so I am enjoying myself and not worrying about the future.

Although I undoubtedly have a few more wrinkles, the age gap seems to lessen rather than increase with the years. I think if you have the chance of happiness you should grab it while you can – at any age.

Of course, I’ve looked after my children in my will. But even knowing that hasn’t improved their opinion of my lover. If I still have some cash left, I may well give him some help for his future business.

It’s my life and my money, such as it is, and I haven’t decided what to do with either yet.

But one thing I know for sure, life is better when I am with Rafael. Regardless of what our critics think.

Names and some details have been changed to protect identities.