The Younger Man (10 page)

8:00 p.m. and fireworks. I get my purse pinched. Bloody French. Doreen tells me they could have been English. I think this is a possibility as ninety-nine percent of people who come to EuroDisney are English, despite the fact that everything is written in French and said in French, at least initially.

9:00 p.m. and Wild West Show where we watch the Bison being chased by the Indians being chased by the cowboys and we discuss how badly the First Nations are being treated by the American government and how the
land should still belong to the Indians and how a lot of modern medicine emanates from their ideals. And the little boy behind us, who can’t hear what is going on and can’t be more than twelve, tells us to shut the fuck up. I think he has a point.

10:00 p.m. and we’re knackered. Valerie wants to go to bed because she’s sleeping for two. Fran wants to go to bed because she still feels queasy. Doreen and Carron are still debating if giving head is sex or not. I say of course it fucking is.

I put my head down on the Minnie Mouse pillow case and have nightmare of dolls at the Small World ride chasing me with litigation papers.

K
nock on door in middle of night. Half awake. It’s Fran.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘It’s Valerie, she’s bleeding. I’ve called the receptionist but there’s no one there that can speak good English. Hazel, your French is up to scratch, we’ve got to do something, she’s in agony.’

I don’t talk. I put a dress on as I’m walking down the corridor with Fran.

‘Have you woken the others?’

‘No, not yet.’

‘Get them up. And get Carron and Doreen to stay with her. I will go to reception.’

I rush to the reception desk. The morose Daisy has been replaced by a sleepy Donald. I say in my best French,
‘One of your guests is having a baby in Room 209. I need an ambulance NOW.’

The duck understands. And calls for an ambulance.

I tell the duck if the girl dies I am a solicitor and will sue it for manslaughter. And that Lady Diana would have lived if she’d had that car crash in England instead of France.

Ambulance arrives in twenty minutes. Valerie able to walk, still bleeding. Girls all suddenly look much older than forty. And feel it, I can tell. I go in ambulance. The others take a taxi. The French streets are buzzing. Buzzing is now in my head. Valerie is just whimpering.

‘The baby will be all right, won’t it?’

‘Yes, Valerie, it will be all right. It will be all right. I will call Harry. It will be all right. You’re over eight months. That’s good. And look at the size of you. He or she must be huge. Just wants to have a French passport and can you blame him?’

‘Yes, that must be it. That must be it.’

At hospital, they take her in on a trolley and I follow. One person, who looks like a doctor, asks if I’m a relative.

‘Yes, I’m her sister. My other sisters are in the taxi.’

The doctor allows us to go in the room with her. I ask the doctor if I can help. He asks me how far gone she is. I reply eight months and say that I don’t think she’s had any problems and that she’s nearly forty and isn’t allergic to penicillin or anything in particular to my knowledge. And that she doesn’t like hospitals, but he doesn’t seem to get the joke.

Others arrive. Looking frazzled. Doreen tells me no one brought their fucking purses, did they? So she had to find a cash point in the middle of the night. And asks how Valerie is and has she had the baby yet.

I say no.

So we sit. And think about life and friendship and ourselves and each other and how helpless we are. How helpless. Useless. Incompetent. Sipping tar-thick espresso from the machine. Good to know coffee in hospitals even in France is disgusting. National Health can’t be blamed for everything.

Doctor comes out.

Smiling. It’s a girl. ‘Mother and baby doing fine. Would you like to see her?’

Collective ‘yes please.’ Collective grinning at baby and mummy, who’s all tearful and looks even more knackered than her sisters. Baby looks red and puffy and squashed but we all insist she’s perfect and has a perfect-shaped head and is beautiful because she is. She’s Valerie’s baby and she’s beautiful.

Valerie asks me if anyone has called Harry and I say ‘shit, no, but will do that straight away.’ She gives me his number. I rush outside, switch on mobile and dial, not forgetting code.

A very tired voice answers, ‘Hello, who’s that?’

‘Hazel, it’s Hazel. Valerie’s had the baby. It’s a girl. We’re in the hospital in Paris.’

‘Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh, I wasn’t there with her. Can I speak to her?’

Man crying down the phone.

‘I can’t use the phone in the hospital. She’s okay. She’s okay and the baby is okay and looks nothing like you, Harry.’

‘I hope not. Hope she’s got her mother’s looks. Oh my God. I’ve got to get over there. Get a flight.’

‘Yes, she’ll be here a few days I would think. Go on the Net, you’ll get one quick. Or come by train.’

‘Right. I’ll do that. Train now. Right now. Oh my God.’

‘And, Harry.’

‘Yes?’

‘Well done, Daddy.’

Man crying down phone again.

‘Oh right. Yes. Oh God. Trust Valerie to have it in France. She’ll want to call her Paris I should think.’

‘Better than Brooklyn.’

‘Definitely. Definitely.’

Return to mother and baby and three doting friends, all of whom are completely hyper with caffeine and admiration. I tell Valerie I’ve told Harry and he’s very happy and crying and on his way and doesn’t want her to name the baby Paris. Valerie cries, too, saying she wishes Harry had seen the birth, but is so very happy all her friends are here with her. Doreen makes some crude joke about using her manicure scissors to cut the cord if we hadn’t made it to the hospital and frying up the placenta for breakfast.

I look at my watch. Four in the morning. Valerie tells
us that the baby’s an Aquarian Wood Dragon, which is not as good as her original plan.

‘She’ll be neurotic,’ Valerie explains with all sincerity.

‘Of course she will,’ says Doreen.

I tell Valerie the little girl will be what she’ll be and that nature and nurture will have influence.

We’re all silent for a few moments gazing at Valerie and the baby, then at Valerie again. Then Carron speaks. ‘I wouldn’t want to go through that all again. Do my life over again. Go through the growing up bit. The puberty bit. The dating bit.’

I tell her she’s going to go through the dating bit again soon. ‘And you’re still growing up, Carron. In fact, you’ll probably grow more over the next two years than you have over the past twenty. Bereavement, separation from loved ones, divorce all bring dramatic changes.’

‘So does moving house,’ Doreen adds.

‘Er, yes, but not quite to the same extent as the others,’ I say.

‘Well, I wouldn’t want to live this life again. It’s hard,’ Carron repeats.

‘It is
hard.
But I think that’s what they call character building stuff. Makes us what we are.’

‘I’m not going to call her Paris,’ Valerie interrupts, staring at her baby and clearly wanting to change the subject back to what it should be tonight.

Doctor returns and asks us to leave. We hug Valerie and smile at the baby, who is still resolutely red and puffy but a little less squished looking. We’re silent as we walk
through the hospital corridors, which is unusual for us. Still a bit dazed about everything, I guess. I don’t know what the girls are thinking about, but I’m thinking about soooo many things I can’t distinguish what from what.

The taxi ride home is quiet. Daisy and Donald ask us how our friend is when we return. I say fine and happy and baby is a girl and doing well. And Valerie has decided to call her Nelly. And they seem relieved that they won’t be charged with manslaughter.

We’ve got three hours of Disney before returning to the train. We take a ride on the teacups, going round and round gently in circles, eventually boring me to tears, and then to the Indiana Jones ride. We’re sent up and down and upside down and juddering this and that way violently, which I love but which makes Fran as sick as a parrot, and I realise that’s what it’s about. Not Fran being sick as a parrot. But this life thing. It’s up to me which ride I go on. How fast I want to go. How many times I go on it. And if I want to leave before my time’s up or when the gates close. I’ve just got to decide when I want to get on and off. And it’s all to do with timing in life and I’ve got to get my timing right.

I
wake up at 8:32 to the sound of ELO’s ‘Mr Blue Skies,’ and hey presto, I’m suddenly no longer a thirty-something—what all thirty-nine-year-olds call themselves, while younger thirties are not so ambivalent about specifying their age—I’m forty. And I feel ever so slightly different. I get up and look in the mirror. No, no more wrinkles. Can still do the box splits? Yes, yes, can still do them. And side splits? Yes, they’re fine, too. It’s weird doing exercises in the nude in front of a mirror, but I suppose that’s what I look like to my boyfriends in bed. And Angie for that matter. It’s the only time I probably get to see me how they see me when they’re having sex with me. And may I say, I don’t look all that bad. Not bad at all.

I’ll be honest. I thought I would be so cool about
turning forty. It’s another birthday after all, like any other, but truth is, it’s not. It feels different. Better different. I’m fit, have the attention of a younger man, and a daughter who is leaving home for college, so I am starting a new life. Which sounds good to me. But as I wake up on June fourteenth, the day I was born forty years ago, I feel rather odd. A bit light-headed. A bit other-worldly, out of body almost. Perhaps it’s an anxiety attack that I wasn’t expecting. Perhaps I will walk outside my front door and people will look at me as an older woman, a middle-aged woman, a woman who is no longer sexy, but more mother earth. Eek. I took in what Doreen said to me about being a mother, about it being the most important role women have in life. And it is important, the most important. But I like my identity. My sexual identity.

I’ve decided to make it like any other day. I’m working, so at least I’m busy. I will be seeing Joe, though he’s got some case in the morning, and I’m having lunch with Fran and Doreen. Valerie is at home with Nelly, who hasn’t left her arms, or her nipples, I don’t think, since the day she came out of her in Paris, and Carron has been taken away by her new love to Prague and for a short while, anyway, has forgotten her friends in the heat of stomach-churning wonderful lust, not eating, champagne at midnight, do not disturb bedroom signs, all-night foreplay, doing interesting things with strawberries and rediscovering sexy lingerie. Bliss.

We’re meeting at Fredericks, in Islington, which is a
lovely restaurant with horrible prices but does a fixed price lunch which is doable on our salaries.

I’ve dressed in a Jocada outfit that’s simple and sexy and feminine. It’s something I always feel confident wearing, but I’m just meeting Doreen and Fran, supper with Sarah tonight, so as I walk through the door of Fred’s I’m feeling good and I’m cool and feeling fuck!

‘Surprise!’ Aghhhhhhhhh.

What seems like a hundred maniacally smiling faces are grinning from ear to ear and all shouting, screeching, bellowing ‘Surprise!’ at me. I just go ‘aghhhhhh’ for what seems like forever, like some virgin who’s come violently for the first time and doesn’t know what the fuck she’s supposed to do with all this energy.

I beam manically back, feeling like a dancer on stage, who’s got to smile through the pain. I wanted a quiet lunch with the girls, I’ve got a full frontal fortieth birthday bash and I’ve got to be smiley and shiny with everyone, otherwise I look an ungrateful selfish bitch.

I seek out the faces of the Disney girls as I now call them. Valerie’s even there without Nelly. Perhaps she’s locked her away in a darkened cupboard somewhere, only to emerge when she needs a feed. I can see Doreen, Fran, Carron, yep, all there, and Sarah, who’s approaching me with a glass of champagne and a guilty expression.

‘Sorry, Mum. Sorry. Know you wanted a quiet Saturday with your teenage daughter who’d promised to cook you a chicken casserole with her own fair hands, with lots of garlic and white wine and soy sauce and TLC. And
you’ll get that some other time, but today, you’ve got this instead.’

And she gives me a hug and a glass which I drink straight down like any virgin fortieth birthday girl would do.

Fran’s voice echoes over the noise, ‘Bet you didn’t expect this. Not after the Disney trip, I bet. But Sarah organised it long before we did, so we couldn’t really let her in on it. And she thought Disney would be a good idea, too.’

I recognise neighbours, friends I haven’t seen for years (God, Janice has put on weight—is she pregnant?), some ex-clients are even here. Brian’s here with his partner Orlando (they are sweet. They look camp out of the office but hey ho), my cousins are here—the ones I like, and the ones I don’t, but you chose friends not family, don’t you. I hug all of them in turn, my Jocando getting gradually more crushed and my hair (I’m so pleased I washed it today—I was thinking of letting it go), more rumpled. I’m offered salmon and what looks like monkfish nibbles but I’m too nervous to swallow. So I hold a salmon bite for a good five minutes before I find a ledge to plop it on without anyone noticing.

My glass is never empty and I’m starting to enjoy this surprise. I’m looking round and thinking it’s so good to see all of them. And then I see Joe, smiling at me, in his Paul Smith suit, looking more casual, no tie, a few buttons undone, white linen shirt. He looks simply gorgeous.

He lifts his glass and walks toward me. I feel sixteen
which is good, because for once I feel younger than he looks.

‘Happy birthday, Hazel,’ he whispers, kissing me on the cheek. And I blush. But I can blame it on the champagne.

‘I’m not blushing, you know. It’s the champagne.’

‘Of course it is.’

My heart is beating so loudly I can hear it go bang bang bang bang, and I’m sure those around me hear it, too, as they turn around and look at me, at us.

I can’t stop grinning. I try but it’s very difficult because it just comes out like some distorted smirk which feels and must look painful. So I allow myself to be unashamedly and look unashamedly happy in Joe’s company. After staring at each other, for a few minutes I manage to say something marginally intelligible.

‘This is what my forty years is all about—not the stuff I’ve accumulated over the years, but the people, the friendships, the loves I’ve made. Must admit when I saw everybody I thought “oh fuck”, but this is sooo good. Sarah is so wonderful doing this for me. Have you been introduced?’

‘Not directly. We spoke briefly on the phone.’

‘Let me introduce you then.’ I turn around and Sarah’s right behind me, grinning almost as manically as I was a minute ago.

‘Sarah, this is Joe, I work with him. Joe, this is Sarah, my daughter.’

‘Lovely to meet you, Sarah. Hazel tells me you’re an aspiring politician.’

‘Did you, Mum! Oh, no, I’m interested in a lot of things. I’m interested in the law, you meet all the good-looking men in law.’

I stare at my daughter. She’s flirting with my man. She’s making doe eyes at him. Okay, he’s not my man. We’re not going out or anything, but we like each other. This is so weird. For the first time in my life I think I feel a little jealous of my daughter. I’ve never wanted to be young again, who in their right mind would want puberty all over again (I don’t think I’m fully out of it sometimes), but she looks stunning today, and he looks gorgeous and they would make a nice couple. This is so weird. I don’t think I’ve even dealt with a case where a man’s gone off with the stepdaughter or his own for that matter, but I’m sure it happens. Oh, get real, Hazel, keep the thought out of your head. This is silly. But could I seriously go out with someone, develop a relationship with a man whom my daughter was attracted to in that way? I’d never thought of that as a problem. Well, I had, but never realistically. Work issues, yes, age, possibly, but daughter fancying my boyfriend, or potential boyfriend—how the fuck do I deal with that?

Joe replies, ‘I know. I entered it because there were so many gorgeous-looking women in it. Your mum for one. She’s a stunner, don’t you think?’

I’m a bit taken back. Joe has just called me a stunner. He’s never complimented me in or out of the office. I know he thinks me efficient, and know he likes me, and can’t get me out of his head and all that, but he’s never
complimented me, and he’s chosen to do it for the first time in front of Sarah, who’s obviously got a crush on him. This is so bizarre I want to laugh. I feel like pushing her out of the way, as though we’re in some playground and I want Joe to kiss me first.

‘Yes, my mum is gorgeous, that’s where I get my good looks from I’m told.’

Hussy. My daughter is a hussy. I smile and say nothing.

‘You do indeed,’ Joe says, looking at me, into my eyes and at my lips which makes me want to melt on the spot because I’ve drunk more than I did at the Paella and haven’t eaten anything and am feeling extremely horny and competitive. Oh, Hazel—this is your daughter, this is Sarah. This is Sarah. Chill. She is more important than any man. She has always been more important than any man. But she has also never fancied any of the men I’ve been with, because they’ve been old enough to be her father. And Joe isn’t. He’s midway. And it’s more socially acceptable for the older man and younger woman than it is the older woman and younger man.

Joe smiles, I think realising Sarah has a crush on him, but our conversation is stopped by a very drunk Brian who gives me a big bear hug and tells me I look amazing and why don’t I wear things like this in the office.

‘Why don’t you wear things like this in the office, Hazel? We’d get a lot more business.’

I regain composure and turn to him, still a bit red in the face.

‘It depends what sort of business you want to get,’ I say, trying not to slur.

I turn back to find Joe and Sarah deep in conversation. I’ve lost my boyfriend even before I’ve got to first base. To my daughter of all people, and he’s still only just out of a relationship. She’s beautiful and I can’t deprive her of happiness and he’s nice. Fuck, I know he’s nice—I fancy him. He would provide for her well and he’s a good person with principles. Hazel, you can be cool about this. You can be cool. Then why the fuck don’t I feel cool. I feel upset. I feel ridiculous. And I know it’s just the drink. It’s got to be just the drink. I must find one of the girls before I do or say something absurd, or worse, hurtful. Where’s Doreen, Valerie, Fran, Carron? Where are they? I turn around and find them all staring at me from afar.

‘So what are you looking at?’ I shout, walking up to them as naturally as I possibly can.

‘You,’ replies Doreen. ‘We were thinking of giving you the bumps, but it seems a bit unfair, since Joe is here. That’s him, isn’t it?’ she says nodding in his direction. I turn round. He’s still deep in conversation with hussy daughter (only joking, only joking).

‘He’s very nice. He doesn’t look his age. Seems older than that. About midthirties I would guess,’ offers Carron. ‘Very nice. Nice eyes. Like his dress sense.’

‘Yes, I like it, too,’ I say, turning away from the happy (shit, shit, bugger shit) couple. In my head I imagine being mother of the bride. Stop it, stop it, Hazel. This is de
pressing. Get another image in your head. The dirty dancing. Yes, that’s better.

‘So have you kissed him yet?’ asks Fran.

‘No, not yet. He’s giving himself space, which is a good thing, after such a long relationship. He needs to.’

‘What harm would a kiss do?’

‘None.’

‘So get in there, girl. It’s your birthday.’

Bolstered by my bullish friends I turn to find Sarah behind me, minus Joe.

‘So many could make it, Mum, and I asked everyone I thought you’d like to be here. Didn’t realise you were working with such a tasty guy. Joe’s gorgeous. Absolute hunk. Why didn’t you tell me about him?’

‘Yes, he is gorgeous, isn’t he. Good solicitor, too.’

‘Must admit when I saw him I thought, for an older man I quite fancied him, but do you know what? I think he’s got the hots for you. Bet you didn’t know that. I know what you’re like. Very tunnel visioned sometimes. But he kept asking me if you have any boyfriends and thought you were gorgeous and it was so distracting having someone as beautiful as you in the office. Very complimentary he was. Gorgeous, but bit old for me. Bit old.’

My daughter is no longer a hussy. And I feel utterly, utterly ashamed. Bad, horrible, wretched mother that I am. I was jealous of my daughter. Of her happiness. But I’m so relieved.

‘Bit old. How old does that make me?’ I laugh.

‘Old enough to be my mum. And I think he likes you.’

‘I think he likes you, too,’ chips in Doreen who’s heard everything.

‘So do I, so do I, so do I,’ echo the rest of the girls.

I’m in the playground again. I feel as though I’m in the school playground and I’m having fun and playing kiss chase with one of the boys but I’ve got to chase him. No, I’ve got to allow myself to be caught.