The Younger Man (6 page)

I deal with Benson quickly. He wants to fight for custody which I tell him will be expensive and emotionally draining and if there is any way he and Mrs Benson can come to some sort of agreement out of court, this is best for them and the children. Brian would kill me for saying this as I’m throwing away tens of thousands of pounds in fees, but I don’t want to make money this way. When it’s to do with splitting money, that’s one thing, children—completely another. He goes away muttering something about an unfit mother.

I speak to Fran who’s in the travel agent with Daniel.

‘Hazel, I just wanted to confirm you were okay with doing one of the readings. We want you to read the one
about what love is. Do you think you can do that without gagging?’

‘Of course I can. Don’t be silly.’

‘Good. Anyway, how are you? Dealt with the Joe situation?’

‘Think so. I’m okay.’ I tell Fran what I’ve just said to Joe. She listens and tells me I was right to back off. That if he wants to leave Fiona, he should do it of his own volition but that I must not, must not under any circumstances try to seduce him because it would compromise my work position as well as the relationship I have with him in the future.

‘Hazel, men overlap in relationships, and so do a lot of women. You are single and available and grounded. Or relatively grounded. He isn’t single and doesn’t sound grounded. You have a full enough life anyway. Perhaps when Sarah goes to college, stuff may change but you don’t need this. I’ve been out with guys who are either just leaving their girlfriends or wives and you get all their crap. Trust me, you don’t want or need their guilt and angst. It’s draining and boring and you won’t get any thanks for it, from them, or from your friends who you will in turn have to load off onto. True, depending on how much you like him, how much you’ve allowed him to get under your skin already, you’re going to want something more because you can’t have it, and until he is free you can’t have him. You have to deal with that. That is your issue, not his. But you know firsthand what it’s like to lose someone you love, so remember that. If their re
lationship is not good, then Joe will have to deal with it, deal with his own guilt of thinking about another woman all the time—but that is his issue—don’t make it yours. He will also want you more because he can’t have you, but he will respect you for being decent, which you are being. So don’t sleep with him, okay.’

I say, ‘okay,’ and say that I’m happy to read at the service and Fran tells me she loves me and is proud of me and that there will be a lot of talent at the reception, which I don’t believe but it makes me feel better in a superficial sort of way.

I don’t leave my office all morning, deal with piles of paperwork that makes my office look slightly less untidy. By lunch-time, I’ve almost forgotten everything to do with Joe.

And then, I don’t know why, but think it’s looking at the clock and seeing it’s one already and that’s when they are meant to be having lunch and then thinking of Fiona and I think of this morning and looking into her eyes. Her sad beautiful brown-green eyes. She knows. At that moment, I know Fiona knows or suspects that Joe likes me. That he likes me enough so that she has to be passing and has to make herself known to me. So that I can see her and feel guilty or threatened or sympathy or all three and that she can claim her territory and her man. But it doesn’t work that way. I know as I’ve been there and I’ve had many clients through my door who’ve been there. True, I can walk away, which I have decided to do this morning, but she’s got to work on Joe, not me. He’s
the one that owes her something—I owe her nothing. I don’t want to feel pity, because that’s negative. I just feel compassion because I think she’s going to get hurt because his feelings have changed for her. If she loves him and is in love with him—which I can only guess she is, she’ll get hurt very deeply and if she isn’t, she won’t. For her sake I hope it’s the latter.

I don’t see Joe again that day. I’m too busy with cases and backlogs and I’m due to go to New York next week on business, so I try to focus on work. And work only.

That evening, I’m in the house by myself again. Sarah is out on a field trip this week for geography somewhere in the West Country, and I’m nesting by the TV with Minstrels and some hypo health drink and a rerun of
The Office.

My mobile rings. My phone says Joe Ryan’s mobile is calling me. But I don’t want to speak to him tonight. So I let it ring and click on to the answer machine.

It rings again five minutes later. Joe Ryan mobile again. Persistent, but perhaps it’s to do with work. These things can wait. If he leaves a message I will listen. But not now.

Another few minutes, another call. Still Joe Ryan. According to my phone another message left.

Okay, I’ll listen. First message. Sounds strong and almost businesslike.

‘Sorry about today. I didn’t expect Fiona and she wanted to meet you. I understand if you don’t want to go out for supper, but would like to go out for a drink with you. During daylight. Less risky.’

Second message. Not as strong. Bit vulnerable sounding.

‘Perhaps the drink is not such a good idea.’

Last message. Sounding tense. Almost desperate.

‘I’m sorry about this, Hazel. I never meant this to happen. I love Fiona very much and don’t want to hurt her. I know you understand. I have been thinking about you a lot, and I have been going through a difficult patch with Fiona, but, well, thank you for understanding. And thank you for last night. It was fun but, well, you know.’ Click.

Right, well, that was it. One non-kiss, a bit of dirty dancing and I’ve known him for no more than a few weeks, just over. I’ve worked on several cases with him, so I know he’s a good solicitor and wears sharp suits, but that’s all I know about him and he’s now calling me one evening at home and telling me that he’s leaving his girlfriend of twelve years because he’s met me. He doesn’t say it in so many words but this is the gist of it. I’m the catalyst to him realising he can’t stay in an unhappy relationship. But there’s no guarantee I want to be with him or go out with him. Christ, don’t know if I even want to sleep with him now.

But at least he knows he can’t have one and the other, sandwiched between Fiona and Hazel—both of whom deep down know what is happening and won’t be treated badly. If the women are mug enough to let him get away with it, I wouldn’t blame him. But I won’t allow it, and neither I feel will Fiona. So I go to bed thinking of Joe Ryan as in past tense—it was a nice non-fling, can han
dle this and fall asleep dreaming of Johnny Depps, rather than sheep. One Johnny Depp. Two Johnny Depps. Three Johnny Depps…

Next morning I see Joe and feel sick. I can’t be pregnant because we haven’t slept together. So unless it’s the immaculate conception or they’re now putting something in the Minstrels, I think I’m feeling lust. But I’m busy. I’m keeping busy with the Benson case because it’s escalating into a slanging match. Both parties starting behaving more childlike than the children. Feeling vindication in every vindictiveness. So both sets of solicitors are trying to be focused on what is best for the children, which, at the moment, seems to be adoption.

Joe is still shadowing me on some work, but thankfully I am seeing less of him during the day. But as soon as we enter the same room, sit down, there’s a tension that won’t go away. Like two magnets, we’re inevitably drawn together, though we sit at furthest corners of the table so that the attraction isn’t too strong or recognisable in front of others.

I notice more about him. The way he laughs—a warm open laugh. His smile—easy and wide. His voice—quite soft for someone who has to stand up in court and be heard. He talks to me, of course. He occasionally mentions Fiona. I ask if everything is okay. He says fine. I sense it isn’t but don’t press as it’s none of my business. It’s not my stuff and I don’t want to make it my stuff. I like the way he does business. The way he speaks to clients, being firm but unpatronising. I like the way he talks and listens
to Marion, who is now smitten with JR, as she calls him. Does that make me Sue Ellen, I wonder? I like him. But I tell no one, except Fran, who tells me I’m doing the right thing. Behaving responsibly.

S
unday. Meeting the girls for lunch at Pont de la Tour. Large round table by the window in the corner. Crisp white tablecloth. Oversized wineglasses. The place has been our regular haunt for years. All mobiles must be switched off for the duration or they get thrown in the Thames. We’re here ostensibly to party because we are all forty this year. Or to commiserate. And to decide what madness we want to do to celebrate four decades of living and breathing on the planet. I have a coterie of friends who are all unadulterated babes. Some of them have had children, some of them still behave like children, especially when we’re all together. But none of us, to my knowledge have had any nips or tucks or Botox and we’ve all worked very hard at life to look this good and be this lucky.

There’s Fran, the soon to be married. Carron, the soon to be divorced. Valerie, the soon to be mother. Doreen, the soon to be CEO of one of the largest multinationals in the country. And me, who’s been married, divorced, given birth, made partner in law firm and is soon to be getting laid. I hope by a man ten years my junior who somehow manages to excite me just by knowing he exists. We all went to the same infant and junior school. We are all totally different, and to my knowledge, we all love each other and talk with a candour about everything that would make most men blush. And does, when they have an adjacent table to us at any restaurant where we deign to have our meetings. We haven’t seen each other for four months. I’ve seen Francesca more because I’m her maid of honour, but the others have all been travelling or away or doing something.

Doreen is late. She’s always late but we forgive her because she has a huge budget and works in a highly testosteroned office of men in their forties who are deeply in awe of her and want to fuck her. She tells us so herself. She works on a Sunday so that she’s two steps ahead of everyone else on Monday morning. Married to Mick the Big Dick (due to the size of his ego) with three hot-housed children all at St Paul’s. She’s worked hard for the seat on the board. Got the Chair through sheer hard work and hasn’t slept her way to the top. She is loaded. As in financially, as in her own right. She’s been studying martial arts so she can, as she puts it, ‘slice the fucking head off anyone who suggests I’ve sucked or fucked my way
to the top.’ Quite. Five foot nine, size ten, Gucci, likes using word fuck, visits personal trainer three times a week (exercise and sex), cheekbones to slice a diamond with. Lived many lives in one lifetime already. Doreen kicks arse—ours and her own.

Carron, former MD of advertising company and soon to be divorced from dick brain Dennis. She is at the stage where she is tragic and numb and very wired and doesn’t know really where she is and what she’s doing. She’s at the phone-friends-at-three-o’clock-and-four-o’clock-and-five-o’clock-in-the-morning stage. She thinks she still loves her husband. We’re here to help her when she has the bottom-of-the-stair-sobbing-at-midnight moments and tell her that he didn’t and doesn’t deserve her and should eat shit and die. And that he probably still loves her but thinks he doesn’t (This is complete bollocks. Dennis was and is a unmitigating prat who shouldn’t be drawing breath, and only wishes Carron to live long so he can continue to bully her emotionally). The man told her so himself. Size six and reducing, five foot five, having daily massages at the moment, buys at MK Maxx, and counselling three times a week. Don’t mention Charlotte—the name of other woman. Carron has kissed arse for far too long.

Valerie, former headmistress, is eight months pregnant and having had five IVF treatments is finally giving birth to a little boy who hasn’t got a clue how precious he is or how he will be absolutely adored and besotted with, when he is born. I am sure Valerie will become
the Mother Superior on giving birth. I feel sort of sorry for this little baby already. Valerie doesn’t leave home without her tarot cards and believes in star signs to the extent she’s timed the birth so she has an Arien Wood Dragon. Whatever the hell that is. She comes from a very close family. Well, by close I mean, they don’t tell each other anything important, but they interfere a lot in her life and that of her husband. This is okay, because his family also interferes a lot in their life, so it sort of balances it out. She has decided she’s waited so long for the baby that she mustn’t do anything. That includes lifting plates, shopping, cooking and walking. It’s a miracle she’s turned up to this. Harry, her very understanding husband (she says he is, and I hope so) does everything. As are the parents and in-laws who are coming round every day to see how she is, and piss off the midwife. Size, fuck knows, getting on size twenty probably, buys at Mothercare, goes to toilet fifty times a day. Don’t mention sexual urges. As for her backside, she’s a Teletubby.

Fran, interior designer, fully qualified and profit earning, not just evening classed and playing at it, is happy with life as she knows it. Excited about the forthcoming nuptials to Daniel (kind but wet, and not in the trickle down the leg sort of way) and getting married before she’s forty. Wanted initially small affair in Tuscany, now decided on huge invite in poshest bit of Surrey. Romantic, shrewd. My favourite. Size eight, buys La Perla, Peter Jones wedding list three times a day, don’t mention divorce (must
remember to not sit her next to Carron). Does her bum look big in this? (Yes, but only because her waist is so tiny.)

And me. Divorce lawyer. Partner. Divorced of course (how can you sell the product if you haven’t experienced it yourself). With seventeen-year-old daughter Sarah, ten goldfish and two tortoises running wild, living in sought-after (according to local estate agents who sold it to me for extortionate price) three bed Victorian villa in Wimbledon. On speaking terms with ex (David and I say hello and make brief eye contact when Sarah is picked up/dropped off every other weekend). According to astrological chart, I am ambitious, kind, lucky, impatient and unprejudiced. According to mirror—I have no cellulite, some grey hairs. Can do box splits after long workout, ski on blues and surf really small waves. Size eight but only in posh clothes and when not time of the month. Interesting but not irresponsible sex life since divorce.
Marie Claire
magazine once profiled me as a Smug single with good prospects. Yeah right.

We haven’t all been together like this for ages, so we will discuss everything from religion, politics and sex, to childbirth (obviously given one of us is having a baby imminently, possibly at the table by the look of Valerie. SHE IS HUGE), divorce (Carron looks as though she’s going to explode but for different reasons), marriage (Fran has a lot to tell about the wedding and will, but hopefully in precis form), death (okay, we’re forty this year but we’ve at least hopefully got another thirty to go) and men (the understanding of them and having sex with). Not necessarily in that order.

Doreen starts the proceedings.

‘So how is everyone? Who wants to start? And how long has everyone got for lunch?’

My friend, dear as she is, has an irritating habit of turning our lunches initially into meetings. She has an over-developed time management chip which is usually useful but occasionally annoying. She takes an hour to chill. She chairs so much in her job, that it filters over into her private life. She drives Mick nuts, but I think he’s as officious as she is. We still love her of course, as we’ve known her for over thirty years and saw her develop into this withering career woman. But we all know, deep down, she’s a teddy bear.

All the girls say they’ve got to get back to someone or for something by three.

‘No, no one to get back to,’ Carron answers, eyes glazed and red.

‘Better than going home to Dennis. He was always chasing you up about who you were with, how long you were going to be. You’ve got your freedom. Use it,’ says Doreen. ‘Use the scorch and burn approach to ending relationships. Men do.’

Then Doreen turns to me. ‘Hazel? You got to get back early? A man or anything?’

For some reason, Doreen thinks as I am single, I am having endless gratuitous sex every night. That as I am single, and Sarah doesn’t need babysitting, I can go off with carefree abandon for long weekends to Bath and Le Manoir aux Quat’saisons (two of my favourite places for
long weekends), and am on some sort of superwoman fuckfest to undo all the celibacy I had to endure when married to David (he said he didn’t trust or respect me so couldn’t sleep with me but that is another story).

‘Actually, there is someone. Someone I like, but he’s not waiting home for me with slippers and a condom,’ I say, fiddling with the flower decoration which I find rather pretentious so I’m quite enjoying slowly destroying it. ‘But I’ve got some work to catch up on. I’ve got a good three hours to listen and tell all.’

‘Oh, tell us about him.’ Valerie beams. ‘I need some light relief. I’ve been having the most awful back pain. I’ve put on three stone, you know.’

The girls smile. Valerie says this as though we haven’t noticed. She is huge. As in Sumo wrestler huge. As in puffer fish at full blow in
Finding Nemo
huge.

‘It’s just water retention,’ Valerie explains.

I can feel Doreen aching to say ‘This is complete bollocks,’ but she doesn’t. Of course, it’s not water retention. It’s the fact Valerie hasn’t stopped eating and has done nothing apart from breathe since she discovered she was pregnant. She looks like two people rolled into one and requires two seats rather than one at a restaurant that typically entertains anorexic ambitious neurotic moody secretaries being dined by control freak public school anally inclined bosses.

‘The guy is a work colleague and—’

Doreen interrupts, ‘Never fucking works. Don’t go there. Don’t fuck him. You haven’t fucked him, have you, darling?’

‘I am fully aware of the pitfalls of having a relationship at work.’

‘You’ve fucked him, haven’t you?’

‘I haven’t. We haven’t even kissed.’ I don’t want to explain to her my non-kiss was actually more intense, more exciting, more erotic than a kiss would ever have been. So I go into work spiel.

‘I know what happens as I deal with a lot of the divorces which occur as a result of affairs in the workplace. And we’ve got to cross that bridge when we come to it. At the moment, it’s fine. If it becomes a problem, we will deal with it.’

‘So you’ve slept with him. Not just a fuck?’

Shall I just make something up and say, yes, I’ve slept with him and then Doreen will drop this? Mind you, then she’ll just ask what he was like, how big, how wide, how long did it go on for, any party or kinky tricks, where I met him, does he have a friend, so perhaps not. I’m not that good a storyteller. So I say, ‘We haven’t slept with each other, but, he may have relationship potential. He’s fun and sexy and, well, he excites me.’

Doreen looks bemused.

‘And you haven’t slept with him?’

‘No.’

‘And he excites you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mentally as well as physically—well, you don’t know about the physical so he could be crap in bed, but the mental excites you?’

‘Yes.’

She smiles. ‘He excites you and you find him sexy and he’s been working with you for how many months.’

‘A couple.’

‘And you haven’t slept with him? Mmm. Does he have a girlfriend?’

‘Yes, living with her for twelve years.’

Sharp intake of breath from friends of the round table. Everyone avoids Carron’s eyeline.

‘How old?’

‘Twenty-nine.’

‘A baby. Well, that’s that then. Long-term, live-in girlfriend, good as married, younger man, work colleague. You pick ’em. Can’t you pick an old barrister with a grown-up family and house in the country, or something? Something simple.’

‘I did. He was two-timing me.’

‘So this seems easier, does it?’

‘No. That’s why I’m not pursuing it, but there’s chemistry and I’m being professional.’

‘So you don’t want to sleep with him?’

‘No.’

‘Liar.’

‘I’ve been through the heartache myself, Doreen. I’m not going to inflict it on another woman. It’s his stuff to deal with not mine.’

‘What’s he like?’ Valerie asks eagerly.

‘Handsome, dashing some might say, bright, sexy—and young.’

Carron says quietly, ‘People seem to go for the younger flesh these days, don’t they?’

Carron’s bottom lip trembles. Waiter, Angus, comes over with the menus and asks us what we would like to drink, which dispels the moment. Lip stops trembling.

Angus is the best waiter in London. There may be better; I haven’t been to all the restaurants, so in my experience I would say he’s the best. I have known Angus for over ten years. He’s seen me in the same state as Carron—post-divorce stress—so recognises the tell-tale signs of endless tears and dramatic loss of weight. He’s forty-five, gay and immaculately groomed, extremely indiscreet with gossip, but only if it’s of a kinky and deeply sexual nature and he’s never malicious. Doreen has vodka martini, shaken and stirred, Valerie and Carron just water and Fran orders a glass of the South African Chardonnay she’s ordered for her wedding and happens to be on Le Pont’s extensive wine list. I order a kir royale.

Angus smiles and begins, ‘Specials today are halibut and monkfish. I recommend the halibut. Very good, very light and—’

Doreen interrupts. ‘Very expensive by the look of it.’

Angus stares at Doreen blankly. ‘Yes, very expensive. But if you would like a child’s portion, that will be half the price but all the flavour and—’

Doreen interrupts again. ‘No. I’ll have a whole fish, thank you.’

‘Can you give us five more minutes to decide?’ asks Fran.

‘Certainly.’ Angus nods.

‘No, no, we can decide now,’ says Doreen.

‘Doreen! Don’t be so bossy. Angus, can you give us five minutes while we sit on our friend,’ says Fran, being wonderfully assertive and putting Doreen in a position she rarely goes to in or out of the bedroom or boardroom. Submissive.

Angus smiles again, this time for real. He turns and goes.

I snap. ‘What is your problem, Doreen? You’re as tight as a top at the moment.’

‘Oh, work, and stuff. Home stuff. And I think Mick’s having an affair,’ she replies.