Книга - The Younger Man

The Younger Man
Sarah Tucker


Does life really begin at forty? Successful, divorced divorce lawyer Hazel Chamberlayne is sexy, independent and about to hit forty. Hazel also has a group of friends she loves and trusts, who love and trust her…and she doesn’t need a man. Not, that is, until the intelligent, engaging and ten years younger Joe Ryan becomes a new partner in the law firm.It’s one thing to spice things up with the occasional passionate indulgence, but in a job where the path of true love runs straight into the divorce courts, Hazel isn’t sure she can believe in her own happy ever after.Though, just like a bikini wax, isn’t love supposed to be less painful the second time round?







Praise for Sarah Tucker



“gritty and emotional” Heat



“earthily honest” Peterborough Evening Telegraph



“a fab girlie read” New Woman


The Younger Man

Sarah Tucker is an award-winning travel journalist, broadcaster and author. A presenter for the BBC Holiday programme and travel writer for the Guardian newspaper and The Times, she is the author of The Last Year of Being Single and The Last Year of Being Married.



Find out more about Sarah at

www.mirabooks.co.uk/sarahtucker




The Younger Man


Sarah Tucker






www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)




ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS


Big thank you to Sam, who is wonderful. I owe you so much. And Kathryn – thank you for looking after me in Toronto so beautifully. To my friends Caroline, Helen, Jo (to whom I sent a text in error and gave me an idea in this book – it can and does happen…); Kim, Linda, Nim, Amanda, Claire, Carron, Clare, Coline and Sarah, all of whom are extremely special to me. I am lucky to call you friends. To Will, who’s given me so much support; I will be eternally grateful. And Jude, who’s the best neighbour anyone could hope for. To Aimee and Mike, who have been angels in my life. To Julia and Nicola, for their support in the real world. And Dad, who’s always there when I need you. Thank you. And to Jeremy.



And to the younger men who I think would probably prefer not to be named and who have in part inspired this story. Thank you for your energy, enthusiasm, sense of romance, humour and imagination. In some small way, I couldn’t have done it without you.


To Tom, who is and will always be my sunshine and

inspiration and the only true love of my life. I love you

more each moment of each second of each day, Tom .

And to Doreen and Hazel, who are my guardian

angels in so many ways.



Chapter One




The Importance of Being a Sarah







‘Ouch!’

Angie, forty-five, pretty in a hard sort of way, is taking care of business. She is, she unashamedly admits, the neatest bikini waxer in the world. I’ve been visiting Angie for years at my local gym. The GoForIt Fitness Club is an extortionately priced black-and-shiny-chrome ego centre for professionals, heavy on self-absorption, light on self-awareness. The purposely heavy-glassed building tries to be desperately welcoming with the Jane Packer flower arrangements at fifty quid a twig in reception, and the blinding white waffle towels in the changing rooms which everyone, whether they can afford to buy their own or not, nicks. The overly air-conditioned studios have lights that make members look far more blotchy and fat than they are—or as they are—I can’t work out which. And the nursery is equipped with everything money can buy except carers who like children. Sit and listen in this place for ten minutes and you need not buy the Sunday papers. There are the wives and mistresses who twitter to acquaintances they need to know rather than want to know, believing friends are to be kept close, enemies kept closer. Their spindly manicured fingers swooping like swifts over tasteless, indigestible salads, furtively nibbling at the organic cucumber when no one is looking. There are the husbands who hide behind broadsheet papers or mumble into hands-free phones and window-shop at the aerobicized twenty-and thirty-somethings in their sweaty White Stuff gear. Then you have the tanned and toned tennis coaches in their whites, calf and thigh muscles deliciously defined, who strut like peacocks, their every word treated like a grain of worldly wisdom by emaciated Traceys who live in Barnes and Wimbledon Village who want to improve their stroke, on the court. The supersized eighty-degree heated swimming pools are full of noisy children watched neatly on the side by pained mothers who’ve just had their nails, toes, noses, eyes done and look ridiculous in the plastic blue bags they have to wear around their latest Manolos or Jimmy Choos. No working class here of course, but then that’s not what GoForIt is all about. It’s about professionals and professional accessories looking good and being watched. And it remains, despite the happy clappy attempts of the earnest club manager to squeeze soul into the place, as anaemic and false as the smiles on the ladies who Pilates through the pain. I go there for one reason only. I go there because of Angie.

Angie is sharp of chin and nose and wit. She has luxuriant long auburn hair and is permanently tanned, but genuinely so (no St. Tropez muck for her, she tells me) and is model thin. Long of leg, body and arm, she looks like a sexy spider, if there is such a thing. She’s had two husbands, numerous lovers and several abortions. I think she has Mafia connections because she’s always hinting at me should I ever want anyone ‘seen’to, I should give her a call. I don’t think she means waxing. She talks in a posh cockney accent so she sounds Australian most of the time. She’s become my counsellor as well as my waxer. Over the years, she’s seen me at my most vulnerable, emotionally as well as physically. And well, to be honest, as every time I see her I’m naked from the waist down, my legs splayed dangling in midair, like some gigantic dead fly, I feel it’s a tad churlish not to open up lyrically as well as literally about baggage and stuff whilst she waxes away. She’s waxed through my marriage (painful), the birth of my child (painful but worth it), and my divorce (very painful and thanks to focused solicitors Hughes Fowler and Symth very worth it), but her waxing always causes me glazed eye distress. It’s okay pain. It’s positive pain. It distracts from other pain, alternating between the exquisite pain induced by my career, the men, the lack of men, the sex and the frustrations—the latter two are invariably interrelated. She’s given me pain. I’ve given her a few laughs. Luckily, she doesn’t charge for the listening, nor the advice, just the waxing.

Today, she’s giving me a ‘target’. An arrow pointing abruptly upward toward my belly button. I’m here with best friend and soul mate Fran, who’s in the next cubicle getting her finger and toenails French polished and eyelashes permed for, I’ve worked out, £1 a lash.

‘Hazel, now put your hand on there. That’s it. And stretch that bit. Yep. That bit. Yep. All in the stretch. And pull that bit over there. That bit, and hold on tight…’

Rip. The green-pea-coloured tea tree wax, which is allegedly less aggressive than the powder-pink sludge variety, tears fire into crotch. The green sludge is supposed to soothe away all possible pain. It still fucking hurts.

‘Aghh, that hurts even more.’ I whimper, surveying red blotches blossoming all over my nether regions. ‘Are you sure the men won’t think I’ve got herpes?’

‘No, no, Hazel, this is quite normal. Quite normal. The blotches will disappear. Try not to sleep with any one tonight darling, or if you do, do it in the dark. But they might feel the bumps anyway and suspect something’s up. Plus, don’t have a bath, so they may not want to sleep with you anyway. Whatever, when the blotches are gone, you’ll love it. You just wait. They’ll love it. They’ll get all excited when they see it.’

I’m trying really hard to visualise any of my recent boyfriends getting excited by my arrow. Their faces grinning inanely like five-year-old schoolboys who’ve discovered the delight of the latest PlayStation game for the first time. I can’t. All I see are blotches. I imagine their faces contorted in astonishment and possible disgust as I seductively pull down the latest lacy almost-there pink number from Victoria’s Secret to reveal one of my own.

Really? I thought most men like something there.

Well, there is something there. An arrow. And it looks sexy. If I were a man, I’d sleep with you, Hazel. And men don’t like it messy. They’re lazy. They like a challenge only if they think it’s achievable. They don’t like to forage for anything too long, Hazel.

Some men like a challenge.

You just wait.

Angie winks at me, as though she knows I’m about to be pounced on, tigerlike, by a prospective date as soon as I leave the room. I’m not convinced but say, ‘Thank you, Angie. You’re sweet.’

‘So, what made you go all the way, love?’ Angie asks, gently rubbing cream into my crotch while I try desperately not to get turned on. I’m not gay, but at moments like this, I wish men could stroke women more like women stroke women, if you know what I mean.

Not realising what she’s referring to initially, I pause briefly and then realising she’s referring to my decision to have a Brazilian wax, I answer.

‘Oh, I wanted a tidy up. Something different. I’m the big Four-O this year, so I want to change a few things. Take a chance, I suppose, and I might as well start here,’ I say, pointing to my crotch.

I look down at myself. My almost forty-year-old crotch. Not bad. Doesn’t look its age considering what it’s been through, but I don’t know what an old woman’s crotch looks like. Not the sort of thing you stare at in the changing room. Not the women’s one anyway. I expect men compare size but women don’t have that. I’ve occasionally asked boyfriends if women are ‘different’ down there. They’ve all said, they are. Shape, size and taste. Some hair is soft and downy, others, you could cut your chin on. Some taste, er, strong, others like strawberries. Yeah right. They’ve reassured me mine is lovely and soft and I taste wonderful, bless them. Not that I would believe any of it, of course. They would say anything to get good head.

‘A fine place to start the new decade as any, I suppose. Must say, you don’t look forty. You’re in good nick. You don’t have many grey hairs.’

‘I have highlights.’

‘I’m not talking about those on your head, Hazel.’

Oh, right.

‘Plus, you don’t have lines on your face.’ (Looks more closely at my eyes) ‘Well, not many anyway. Helps I suppose, you not being married.’

I smile. ‘No, happily divorced. Must be five years now, Angie.’

‘Yep, must be about five. Watched you go down two dress sizes, giving me a running commentary as it were. Spontaneously bursting into tears halfway through the facials. Angry one minute, sad the next, in mourning one day, full of excitement the day after. But now look at you. You’re constant, well, as constant as I think you’re ever going to be, Hazel, and you’re happy. You’re a right SARAH. Single and Rich And Happy.’

‘I’m not rich. I’m comfortable. Happy? Yes, I’m happy and happily single. When I had the energy to make space for a man, they couldn’t handle a single mum with a young child. Now Sarah’s all grown up and off to university soon, I don’t know if I want someone else to care for.’

‘They could care for you, Hazel.’

‘No, it doesn’t work that way, Angie. You end up caring for the man. They’re all little boys—whatever their age. Frankly, I can only see the downsides to marriage these days. None of the upsides.’

Angie looks at me like a mother looking at her child whom she knows is fibbing. She knows me too well. She knows I’m a divorce lawyer and a very successful one at that. When it comes to talking to prospective clients about their relationships, I find a negative in every positive if I want to, and a positive in something negative. So perhaps I’ve started to believe my own bullshit over the years. She says my views are warped and harsh and cynical. I say they are realistic and based on observation and listening. A lot. But I have hope. And my colleagues tell me that hope I have, that single ingredient, makes me human. I think it just makes me weak.

‘No boyfriends then?’

‘No boyfriend, right. I don’t have boyfriends anymore. I think when you’re over thirty they become lovers. How can you call a forty-or fifty-something-year-old a boyfriend.’

Angie looks at me again, giving me a wry smile. She’s penetrated my façade of ambivalence. The one I’ve become so good at nurturing and practicing over the years. She knows, Angie knows, I would like to meet someone, but it sounds so pathetic. That phrase ‘Dear Agony Aunt, I want to meet someone.’ As though I don’t meet another human being in my daily life. Of course I meet men. I meet loads of eligible deeply unhappy men. They also happen to be deeply and overtly embittered and at that particular time of their life, usually openly misogynistic. And the wanting to meet people bit sounds strangely adolescent or alien or both. And it’s taken up so much of my thinking time in past years. A waste of thinking space when there is so much more to do and think about and care about in this world—bigger issues, like, well, like world peace and the cure for cancer, than ‘wanting to meet someone’. I’m thirty-nine, for Christ’s sake. Not nineteen. Yet I want that singular selfish rush to the brain—and be honest with yourself, Hazel—to other parts of my body as well. That buzz of electricity when you’re within three inches of the person’s arm that I always misguidedly diagnose as love, and is the more short-lived but no less potent virus known as chemistry.

Angie laughs. ‘Yep, men are boys, some behave like babies, like my first husband—I had to do absolutely everything for him. My second was more like a toddler, with his alternating tantrums and sulking when I didn’t wear black suspenders and thigh-high boots on Friday nights. Most men are happy with fish on Fridays.’

She stops and smiles, realising what she’s said.

‘And my last boyfriend was in an eternal state of adolescence, angry with life and himself. At the moment I think I’ve struck lucky because I’ve got one who’s about the emotional age of six—malleable, does as he’s told, cute as a button and happy with his lot. But you’re a youngster yourself, Hazel. Always think of you as a free spirit, I do.’

‘I try to be. I’ve found focus and financial freedom in work I find challenging and enjoy and a happiness I couldn’t have imagined in bringing up Sarah by myself.’

Sarah is my teenage daughter. She’s seventeen, has lived with me all her life and is leaving for university in September to study French and politics and life. I will miss her. Correction. I am weeping inside at the thought of her going. But it will pass eventually. She added to my life in a way I couldn’t have imagined. I felt I had one more person on this planet on my side when I gave birth to her. Whereas when I married I felt I dissolved as a person. I even lost my name. But perhaps it was just the man I chose. And what was true of him isn’t of all men. I hope. As for Sarah, we’ve been a good team; I love her more than anything in the known and yet to be discovered universe. My teenage daughter, with her bright blue eyes and long shiny brown hair, in her Gap jeans and Quiksilver sweat shirt is grinning at me in my mind’s eye. She’s gorgeous and smart, but I’m biased. Thankfully, the A level board agree with me and they gave her grades good enough to get her into Bristol, where she says all the talent is and she can still have fun and get a fine degree. I will miss her. I will miss her dreadfully. Sometimes when I think about it, and I try not to too much, I get a heartache and feel it’s breaking. This sounds so dramatic but she’s been so much a part of my life, has Sarah. I’ve read to her over a thousand times at night, and cherished each bedtime kiss and hug in the morning. Her favourite was always the book Big Rabbit and Little Rabbit, about how Big Rabbit loved Little Rabbit to the moon and back. I’ve nursed her through chicken pox and measles and stitches when her granddad was chasing her round the table and she hit her head on the corner and blood was everywhere. And I came and scooped her up and went to the car, running into the casualty department, asking, well, demanding someone see her immediately. And bless the National Health then, they did. I’ve had the pooey bottoms and holding-breath-banging-head-on-floor tantrums (a technique some of my grown-up clients also use in court when they don’t get their own way), Teletubbies and Power Rangers (she always was a bit of a tomboy). I’ve met the boyfriends from hell and those from the local public school (usually the same). She’s seen a lot of her dad and that’s done her good and she’s made her own mind up about him. She’s meant I couldn’t go out with the other adults on so many occasions I can’t count, but I don’t begrudge missing a single one of them. She’s been wonderful company, both my right and left arm and I will miss her to the moon and back a zillion times over when she goes to college. And I mustn’t think of that now, because if I do, I will cry.



A tear runs down my face, which I explain away to Angie as being something in my eye.

Angie sees through it.

‘Sarah’s off to university soon, isn’t she?’

‘Yep.’

‘Miss her, won’t you?’

‘Yep.’

Another tear falls, so she changes the subject.

‘So you think women want to grow up?’

‘I don’t know about all women, but I don’t fear growing up. I quite relish it. I look forward to it. Hassles and all. After all, with age comes experience. Not necessarily increased wisdom, but experience. And I get more of a buzz, much more of abuzz, out of emotional experiences than I think many of the men I meet do, on all levels.’

Angie smiles again.

‘You’re in the minority then, darling. As for growing up or getting old as most people call it, I don’t think most of the women who come to this gym look forward to it one little bit. I have at least fifty women in here a week talking to me about how they bemoan the latest line on their face, or vein in their leg, and how, if they had the money, they would have Botox, or surgery to lift and tuck something somewhere. Believe me, Hazel, these women want to hold back time just as any Peter Pan. Just as much as men do.’

‘That’s different, Angie. Yes, I agree, they want to hold back the physical aspects of ageing. We all do. I do. That wouldn’t be natural, although ironically, that’s what the ageing process is—natural. But I don’t think women want to hold back the emotional aspects of ageing. Of gaining experience. I think they rather enjoy that bit. I just think they’re emotionally, well, how can I put it, emotionally deeper, more interesting, more dimensional than men. They have the potential to have more fun with life if they only had the courage and believed in themselves a little more than they do. Like men do. I think women have the capacity to, well, how can I put it, to emotionally orgasm. Don’t think men can.’

Angie laughs. ‘Never heard it described that way, but think I know what you mean. So, let me get this right, you think men are rather emotionally frigid?’

‘Yep. Well, the men I’ve met are. Both in my professional and personal life.’

‘And simple?’

‘Yep.’

‘So if these men of yours are such simple creatures then, why can’t you understand them?’

‘I can. They’re boring emotionally. We think they’re straightforward because that sounds more hopeful, more positive, but actually they’re just boring. Immature if you like, but they’re less honest than children and don’t say what they mean or mean what they say. Or know what they want or want what they need. Children are honest and do say what they want and need. I find men emotionally one-dimensional. Bit dull.’

‘Not all of them surely. What about the romantic gestures they make? You’ve told me about some of the lovely weekends to Prague, New York and Milan you’ve been on care of these boring emotional insipid men of yours. They’ve been spontaneous with flowers and actions.’

‘What about them?’

‘That shows emotional depth.’

‘No, it shows imagination. Consideration. Thoughtfulness. If they want something in return, it shows logic, probable manipulation, it doesn’t show emotional depth.’

‘How do you gain emotional depth, then? How do men gain emotional depth?’

‘For me, was when I gave birth to Sarah. And when I got divorced. I gained an inner strength, an impetus, an edge, an understanding, a focus, an energy, a direction, through childbirth and divorce I didn’t have before.’

‘You didn’t gain any of those things when you got married?’

‘No. I became a part of something. I wasn’t whole anymore.’

‘Don’t you lose yourself a bit when you become a mother, too?’

‘I found being a mother is as whole as they come. And the mother figure as any religion or prophet or tarot card reader will tell you, is the strongest card in the deck. Most powerful. Most resourceful. Most compassionate.’

‘So how did your divorce make you whole?’

‘I got my name back and my self-esteem, having gone through the steepest learning curve I hope I’ll ever experience. I rediscovered my identity.’

‘Don’t you think your ex did, as well?’

‘He never lost his. Moreover, he went straight to someone else, so didn’t give himself time to discover who he was by himself anyway, which is why he’ll never change.’

‘You’ve been out with divorcees and fathers yourself. Didn’t they have emotional depth? Didn’t they show how much they loved their children? They’ve been through the same experiences you have, after all.’

‘To be blunt, no. In my opinion—and from what I’ve observed—little changes for a new father. Or little in relation to the mother. Those I’ve dated view fatherhood as responsibility, one they are happy to take on, to talk about, to show off, but it’s responsibility all the same.’

‘That’s a bit harsh, Hazel.’

‘I know. It’s harsh. I know. And it’s disappointing to think like that, isn’t it.? That men, the ones I’ve met at least, are that shallow. And isn’t it so much nicer to believe in the caring father figure and the romantic hero? The white knight. The Mr Darcy. Much nicer to think men think about their children in the same way women do, wouldn’t it? That men think about women the same way women think about men. That they grieve and hurt in the same way women do. That they gain emotionally through experience. But they don’t. Not the ones I’ve known anyway. They don’t learn. They don’t have the same nurturing chip as women have because, bottom line, they’re the ones that need the nurturing. Even Peter Pan needed his Wendy.’

‘So if you stopped nurturing them, do you think they’d grow up emotionally?’

‘No. And that’s the rub. That’s why it’s disappointing and futile to try. All of mine had this fixation to be and stay young, whatever their age, which makes them fun and fickle, but ultimately rather draining—taking from me emotionally rather than giving back. But I live in hope. I will never give up looking.’

I sit and scrutinise my crotch, which is now blotch free and quite sexy. I remember the time when I was in the car with an old boyfriend and he was stroking my inner thigh, gradually working his way up, and I realised I hadn’t waxed for ages, and didn’t want him to go there. I wonder what he’d think of this now. My cupid arrow. Angie jolts me out of my reverie.

‘So, my love, how do you feel about turning forty?’

‘Fabulous. My school friends are all turning this year as well. Meeting up with them in a few weeks for a celebration of sorts. I know it’s not usual to say this but I’m quite excited about turning forty, Angie. Quite excited.’

‘Good for you, darling. Good for you.’

I like Angie. Angie doesn’t give me any homespun philosophies or advice, but does make me think. Thought for the day—are men emotionally shallow or is there a free-spirited, fun, funny, sexually imaginative Peter Pan out there who also happens to be emotionally mature? Please discuss.

We hug and smile and Angie tells me I have to come back in a month’s time to have the arrow sharpened.

‘You’ve got to keep it neat. You never know when you’re gonna get lucky.’



Chapter Two




My Best Friend’s Wedding







No tigers pounce on exiting Angie’s little room, which sort of surprises me given her reassurance I would be eaten alive. I feel strangely liberated. Almost schoolgirl excited about the thought of seeing Fran and telling her (not showing her, we’re not that close) about the arrow. Fran and I meet once a month at the Club, for herbal teas and sugar, gluten and fat-free flapjacks (they taste like solidified saccharined porridge, so sort of safe comfort food), and catch up on the latest gossip that’s accumulated over the past thirty or so days.

Francesca or Fran as I call her, interior designer, also thirty-nine, one of my best friends, soon to be married for the first time to Daniel, series director for long-running critically-acclaimed excellent-rated series Unreality TV on Trial, whom I’ve arranged to meet in the café with her newly curled eyelashes.

I walk past the emaciated Traceys, the toned coaches, the spindly wives and mistresses, past floor-to-ceiling mirrors, surveying everyone in their reflection—not wanting to look directly at any of them, for fear I’ll turn to stone. Or worse, become one of them. And I stop for a moment as I glimpse myself and think hey, I don’t look bad. Angie was right, despite all that I’ve gone through with the marriage, divorce, psychotic ex, childbirth, childlike boyfriends and broken hearts, I don’t look bad on it.

Fran, five-nine, curvy in all the right places, looks like Betty Boop. Her eyelashes have been overpermed. She’s a good friend so I say, ‘You look like Betty Boop.’

‘Thanks for your support.’

‘You should sue.’

‘It’ll calm down. Just that I have particularly long eyelashes so it’s taken well, according to Jane.’

‘Jane being the woman who’s done this to you.’

‘Yes. Anyway, how’s your Brazilian?’ she asks.

‘It’s quite sexy. She’s given me an arrow. Which points up.’

Fran laughs. ‘Sounds intriguing.’

‘Yes, I’m hoping men will be intrigued.’

‘You mean, turned on, excited, aching for you.’

‘Yep, that’s what I mean.’

Fran orders two peppermint teas and two bars of solidified porridge.

‘How are the wedding plans going?’ I ask, knowing full well everything is fine tuned.

Fran is getting married in a few months’ time. She is organised. I know Fran is organised because I am her maid of honour and I know every minutiae to the politics of coordinating the reception, honeymoon, flowers, food, guest list and wedding present list. I know there will be no hymns, as no one sings them anyway. I’ve met the Keith Richards lookalike saxophonist who will play ‘Blue Moon’ while the register is being signed. I’ve met (and already slept with the lead singer of) the hip band who do excellent cover versions and will be performing after the speeches at the reception in the Abbey in Chalfont St Mary, where Fran and Daniel have their five-bedroom cottage, recently extended with cinema and games room. I have sat through every dress fitting of the bride (there have been six). I know the politics of which family doesn’t like which family and therefore must not, under any circumstances, be sat next to one another for fear of distracting from the pleasure of the day. I know she doesn’t like Arun lilies. I know her mother does and that last week this led to seventy-two hours of silence between bride and mother of the bride. Fran won. I know what she wants left out of the groom’s and best man’s wedding speeches and what she wants in. Daniel knows, too. She wrote the speeches.

‘Are you happy with all the wedding preparations?’ I ask, knowing full well she is.

‘Yes, Hazel. Very happy. Think all my hard work is paying off and it will be a very happy day. Only thing we can’t guarantee is the weather and I’ve heard about this spiritual healer who is very good, and I’m going to see if I can get on her good side and ask if someone up there can do something about it. Never know, worth trying.’

Anyone else and they’d be joking. Fran is serious. I continue to drink my tea.

‘Do you like your dress?’ she asks.

‘It’s lovely, Fran. And I do appreciate you asking me to be your maid of honour, but, well, I still think, are you sure it isn’t a bad omen having a divorce lawyer, and a divorced one at that, as your maid of honour. I’m not exactly an advocate for happy relationships, am I? In fact, quite the reverse.’

‘Of course not, Hazel. You’re my best friend. And, well, I’ve thought about these things, as you know I do, as you know I always do. And it’s a good way to keep Daniel on his toes from the start, if you know what I mean. Anyway, how are you then? How’s work, still seeing Dominic?’

Dominic was a barrister to whom I used to give a lot of work. Tall, dark, angularly handsome, recently divorced with three children, he was into hunting, shooting and fishing and was extremely athletic and competitive in the bedroom as well as out of it. I burnt more calories having sex with Dominic for thirty minutes than I did spinning for sixty minutes at GoForIt. And it cost me less. He was also quite sweet. That was until I discovered Dominic was bedding the female clients I was asking him to represent in court. I was miffed. As his pimp, I felt at least he should have given me some sort of commission. Anyway, Dominic and I were no longer an item—a team, in or out of the court or bedroom.

‘No Fran, we’re no longer together. It was a physical thing anyway. He was very good-looking, handsome, and I enjoyed his company. Fun and funny.’

Fran looks at me as if she’s looking through me.

‘He was seeing the clients wasn’t he?’

I look at her and smile, but I’m a bit glassy eyed.

‘Yes.’

Fran stares at me for a bit, then says, ‘Hurt you, didn’t he?’

I am not going to cry. I am not going to cry. I am not going to cry. I am a hard woman. A strong woman. A tough woman. It was a physical thing anyway. I understand what men are like. What makes them tick. It was just physical. Okay, I thought his children were lovely. And he was lovely when he was with them. And he was lovely with Sarah, too. I loved having breakfasts and lunches and suppers with him. And he was interesting and well read and I liked his taste in music. And he made me laugh. And I’m thinking, visualising him now. And things like this happen. I am not going to cry.

‘Yes.’

A tear trickles down my face. God, so many tears in one morning. I must stop drinking so much water.

‘Liked him, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, but, well, he had baggage. I do, too.’

‘Perhaps. Depends how you package it, Hazel. How well you carry it. You carry yours well. Baggage only becomes a problem when you carry it around and offload it onto those around you. He sounded nice, but he had issues. You talked about him a lot, you know. Your relationship wasn’t just physical. It wasn’t to you anyway. What happened?’

I tell Fran about the clients. In a matter-of-fact way, without tears, embellishments or use of the B word.

She listens, sipping her tea, expressionless. She has a good poker face.

‘Well, everything happens for a reason. You’re worth more than him. Now hug.’

We hug. Like friends who’ve known each other for decades hug—without a hint of self-consciousness even in a public place like GoForIt. And a few more tears fall. Silent warm ones, onto her pink cashmere Paul Smith cardigan.

We finish the teas and bars and order two more teas.

‘Apart from Dominic, anything or anyone else new or on the horizon?’

‘There’s a new partner who starts on Monday. Joe Ryan. Came from Wilhouse Smyth. Oxford, sharp, good reputation. And young.’

‘How young?’

‘Like ten years my junior young.’

‘Handsome?’

‘Can’t really see in his mug shot. No one looks handsome in their mug shot though.’

‘You do. Have you met him yet?’

‘No, Monday morning, board meeting. 9:00 a.m. We’re all being introduced. You know, usual informal, formal thing. We’ll be working on a case together. The Bensons. Not particularly straightforward. Lots of emotion there. And money.’

‘So no difference then really.’

‘No. Joe Ryan comes well recommended.’

‘Wonder if he’s fit?’

‘Business and pleasure don’t mix, Fran. And I want to get away from dating lawyers and barristers. All we end up talking about is cases, past ones of course. It’s a bit limiting. And takes the innocent romance out of the evening a bit.’

‘I suppose it’s an occupational hazard. You dated that banker last year.’

‘Oh yes, him. The guy I met at someone’s birthday party, invited me to lunch and then proceeded to tell me he has a girlfriend, a five-month-old baby and a very big sex drive and wasn’t being satisfied. So would I be so kind as to relieve his tension.’

‘Yes, think you told him to pay for a hooker.’

‘In a nice way, yes, I think I did. Disturbing thing is, Fran, that this happened to me twice last year. I’d meet someone, talk to them, and they’d think that I’d be game for sex without the relationship bit.’

‘Your problem, Hazel, and it’s always been your problem, is that you’re sexy.’

‘A lot of women are sexy.’

‘Yes, I know that. Let me finish. You’re sexy and bright and come across as independent. You can look after yourself.’

‘I do look after myself.’

‘Yes, let me finish. So you’re sexy and independent. Along comes a guy, unhappy with his sex life, but happy with the status quo of his relationship, meets you, thinks you won’t get all emotional on him, because of the way you come across, and goes for it. Problem is, Hazel, you may do a tough woman’s job, wear the blue suit, stand in court and be as cold as they come, but you’re a big softy. And men may see you as ideal mistress fodder, but you’re not a mistress. You’re a wife, my darling. And they’re very different animals. You’re number one, not number two.’

‘So what am I supposed to be, all submissive then? Play the little woman when I’m not the little woman.’

‘No, be yourself. Always be yourself. Then you’ll meet someone who’ll like you for yourself. Because, Hazel, and don’t take this the wrong way, you’re not what you initially seem. You come across as feisty and confident and together, and you are. You are in many ways, but as your friend I’ve always felt when you’re in a relationship, it brings out the softer side in you. By soft I don’t mean vulnerable. You’re not vulnerable like you were when you were married to David. You don’t attract control freaks quite like you used to. But, and I know you’ll hate me for saying this, because it goes totally against your “I don’t need a man in my life anymore” philosophy, you’re a romantic.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘No perhaps about it. When you’re out of work clothes, you wear printed floaty skirts. Short ones. Your house is dramatic and contemporary, but it’s feminine. Despite the cynical job you do every day, your glass is always half-full. And that’s why you’re fun to be around. And I’m afraid, an optimist against all the odds makes you a romantic.’

‘An optimist perhaps. I don’t see through rose-tinted glasses.’

‘I know you don’t. How can you, doing what you do for a living. I think you see more clearly now than you ever have before, that’s why it’s rather wonderful that you still have this faith. Just be yourself, Hazel. The right man will find this charming and find it, you, utterly irresistible. Mark my words.’

Two more teas arrive. We watch the high-powered aerobics class emerge from the 1 1/2 hour session of stretching, kicking, jumping. They look red and hot and smell of sweaty underwear. Most of them are smiling, high on the adrenaline and the knowledge they won’t have to do it for another seven days. Neither Fran nor I feel guilty.

‘And you never know, Hazel, you may meet someone at my wedding. That’s where a lot of people meet their future husbands, so I’m told.’

‘I do know. My next client met his future wife at one. Only he was married at the time. That’s the problem.’



Chapter Three




Calming Mr Benson







Mr Francis Benson is screaming at me. Occasionally it pitches to a screech. Monday morning. Eight o’clock in the office. Mr Benson, my next client, is on the phone. As he pauses to draw breath, I interrupt.

‘No, Mr Benson, you will not be able to get away with keeping all your money. You were married to your wife for seven years. This is not a long marriage, but it is also not a short one. It is somewhere in between and following the case of Jones vs Jones earlier this year, it is highly likely that you will have to hand over forty-five percent of your assets and a sizeable proportion of your income each month. Do you understand?’

Mr Benson, thirty-eight, equity trader, third marriage, two houses, one mistress, eight rented properties in London (none of which his wife knew about but will soon), one ulcer, does not understand. I sense he is about to spontaneously combust. He sounds as though he has been pacing, or is pacing. I expect he looks like Sarah when she first emerged from my body. All red and squished and incredulous and cross-looking.

Benson spits bile.

‘I hate the fucking bitch. The fucking witch. She did fuck all in the marriage. She had affairs, you know. One while we were engaged and another while we were married. I found out by reading her e-mails and text messages. The slut.’

I don’t interrupt. As a woman and as a divorce lawyer I know there are always two stories to be told. People have affairs because they are unhappy. Because they are restless and bored and selfish. She may have been any one or all of these things. It’s that simple. But I say nothing. It is not my place or my remit to speak. Mrs Benson’s counsel will do that for her in court if it gets that far. I let Mr Benson vent his fury. Better out than in. Better here than in court.

‘I sent her on loads of cookery courses and she couldn’t cook a fucking thing. She brought fuck all to the marriage. Fucking bitch. Ugly fucking bitch. I fucking hate her. I don’t want to give her a single fucking penny.’

I smile because all my male clients mention their wives’ lack of culinary skills when they start to rant, as though they expect me to mention it in court.

‘And please can I raise, m’lord, to your attention, the fact that Mrs Benson failed to cook spotted dick for my client on the days he required. Failed consistently to prepare pasta in the correct way, with the right sauce. And made, in the words of my client “a lousy cup of tea.”

As though it’s a big deal. It obviously is to them. The way to a man’s heart may not be through his stomach, but it certainly miffs him if his wife doesn’t cook. My male clients consistently talk as if it’s right up there with drug problems and emotional cruelty. Suppose it is to them.

‘Yes, I realise that, Mr Benson. Unfortunately, or fortunately I should say, you have two children from your marriage, and you have to support these children and your wife, whether your wife was a good cook or not. She did, in the eyes of the law, support you, and you did, according to my notes, make most of your income and acquire most of your assets—in fact you acquired all of your assets—during the seven-year marriage. So she has supported you during this time as far as the law is concerned, and brought up your children and helped you to become as successful as you are.’

‘Fuck that fuck that fuck that. She has a fucking nanny to take care of the kids. She fucking lunches and does her fucking nails and gets her fucking bikini line waxed. She does fuck all.’

I cross my legs at the mention of bikini wax, feeling for some reason, guilty. As though a finger is pointing at me. Perhaps it’s just my arrow.

‘Yes, Mr Benson, in the settlement her lawyers will take that into account and probably expect you to continue to pay for the waxing and lunches as well. The way the law stands you will have to maintain her standard of living or one similar to it. From what I see, her demands are reasonable.’

I can sense Benson is starting to pace again. I can hear him counting in two three out two three, in two three out two three, under his breath. He’s trying to calm himself down, which is good and I wait until the rage has passed.

‘Are you okay now, Mr Benson?’

‘Yes, please continue.’

So I do. ‘Think of the long-term goals, Mr Benson. Think of the good of your children. It is better you have as little acrimony in the divorce as possible because you will have to maintain contact with your ex-wife because of your children. I suggest you offer the matrimonial home, as your wife will more than likely have custody of the children. But you will probably be able to keep the house in Italy. This all depends on the scale of your financial assets, which I believe are considerable. Your wife is not asking for the Italian home and is in fact asking for much less than she is entitled to, Mr Benson. You do realise that, don’t you?’

Benson is silent, although I can hear him muttering about ‘bitch a penny,’ and then speaks in a much calmer but no less emotional voice.

‘Can I see the children when I want to?’

‘The norm is every other weekend, perhaps one evening a week and two to three weeks’ holiday during the year.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid it is. If you are able to agree to terms out of court as far as access is concerned it will be best for everyone emotionally and financially. And it is good if the children can see as much of their father as possible.’

Benson is silent. I think he’s quietly sobbing.

I don’t like dealing with the child side of divorce. The financial I can do easy. Men tend to get emotional about the money mainly because they think it’s all theirs and view it being taken away from them at a time when they want to burn their old relationship for the new. But it doesn’t happen that way, as they find out, usually to the detriment of their psyches, not to mention their wallets. Divorces may be quicker these days, but they are no less painful. And the pace at which divorce takes place tends to only intensify the heat often exchanged between both parties rather than calm it. I’ve come to the conclusion over the years of practicing family law that given more time, I think both parties would think more clearly, with more compassion.

After a few moments I speak again.

‘We could ask for joint custody, Mr Benson. Would you like that?’

‘I can’t ask for that. I can’t look after them properly. I would need a live-in nanny, and no matter how much I hate the bitch, it’s best that the children are with their mother. I know she loves them and no one will look after them like she will. So I will make sure they are okay.’

‘Well, I think I have all your financial details and if you want to tell me anything else or feel you would like to ask for joint custody, just let me know. What are you doing for the rest of the day, Mr Benson?’

‘Working, as I always do. Mind you, if I retire in a few years’ time, then I might be able to get custody. All I need to do is prove she’s an unfit mother. I’ll watch every fucking step she takes.’

I feel a cold chill down the spine. Sometimes, only sometimes, I get a twinge of memory. Like a period pain, that pulls at my stomach suddenly and silently and disappears just as quickly. A smell, something someone says, a television programme will jog me back to a time I would prefer to forget. Like my own divorce. And I remember David using those same words. ‘All I need to do is prove you’re an unfit mother. I’ll watch every fucking step you take.’ At the time, it struck fear into me. The fear of not seeing Sarah grow up. Of being a terrible mother. And I watched my back. Quietly and consciously I watched my back. Now I hear that phrase so often from my male clients, with the same bile in their voices, that the only emotion it strikes in me is sadness because now I know when either party says this, they’ve lost the plot. And I’ve got to help Benson find it again, for his sake as much as his children’s.

‘If you need a counsellor to talk to, I know a very good one. I realise it’s a very emotional time for you, Mr Benson, but if you can control your anger, you will benefit. As I’ve said, I know a very good one, and they can help in such matters.’

Silence, then, ‘Thank you, Ms Chamberlayne.’

‘Please call me Hazel.’

‘Thank you, Hazel.’

‘I will be working on your case with our new partner, Joe Ryan. He’s very efficient, highly regarded, and I will be briefing him fully on your case this afternoon. He will be assisting me.’

‘Does that mean my bills will double?’

‘No. When he’s working on the case, I won’t be, and he’s cheaper by the hour than I am.’

Mr Benson laughs. Which is good, although I think he’s probably thinking along the lines of another woman who’s costing him a lot of money.

‘Good to know.’

‘If you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to call me.’

‘At £300 an hour, Hazel, I may think twice about it.’

‘I know, but it may save you more than that if you have some doubts.’

I put the phone down, my left ear still slightly stinging from Benson’s screeching and stare out the window of Chamberlayne, Stapleton and Ryan. One of the top companies specialising in matrimonial law. I sit blue-suited, hair up in a loose ponytail in my small, white, slightly untidy office with shelves up to the ceiling on one wall, and a very large print by Nelson Mandela I bought at the Ideal Home Show a few years ago. The one with a lighthouse which I find very calming to look at and even chills clients like Mr Benson. My office looks out over Chancery Lane, down to the street that is quietly buzzing with more blue-suited people, hurrying to their offices with trays of Caffé Nero coffees and bags of bagels for partners and barristers too lazy or superior to get their own. It’s a sunny day, and it makes me smile…full frontal tears, hate and anger first thing on a Monday morning and I can still smile at the sunshine. Perhaps Fran is right. Perhaps I am a romantic after all.



Chapter Four




Meeting Joe Ryan







I’m blushing. I don’t blush. Well, I do, but I haven’t blushed since I was a teenager and I had my first kiss with sexy class lothario John Bullman in Mr Boniface’s fourth year science class. He asked me if he could look at how I was cutting up my very stiff dead rat. I leaned back on my stool and he stole a kiss. I was so surprised I blushed then fell backwards, dead rat flying into the lap of Maxine Levine, who screamed the room down, in much the same tone as Benson did this morning.

I’m blushing because I’ve met Joe Ryan. I have that frisson of electricity running through my body. That double take. That slightly sick feeling. Joe Ryan has something about him. A presence. I don’t know if I think he’s gorgeous. Perhaps not obviously gorgeous in a George Clooney or Jude Law or Brad Pitt sort of way. More in a, well, a thinking woman’s bit of crumpet. Like, well, like, I can’t think of anyone at the moment. So perhaps I’m not that woman. I’m not a thinking woman because I can’t think at the moment. But I think, I know, this man sitting in front of me, has ‘it’. And I like it. Probably an arrogant bastard. No, don’t judge him, Hazel. You haven’t even taken in what he’s wearing. What he smells like. How he’s groomed. Don’t judge. Poor man. He hasn’t even opened his mouth yet. You’ve just walked through the boardroom door, briefly surveyed the room, looked down and he’s sitting there. In fact, he’s in the chair I usually sit in (bit miffed about this actually), light flooding in behind him like some halo. And he’s looked up at me. He’s looked up at me. He’s looking up at me. And I’m blushing.

Brian Stapleton, forty-five, senior partner, good friend, Oxford educated, brilliant and unassuming, living in four-bedroom House and Gardens house on Richmond on The Hill, with his male partner, Orlando, is sitting on Joe’s right. He is clearly amused by my reaction. I’ve known Brian for ten years, worked with him for five. He can usually double guess me—a useful skill in any personal relationship and absolutely necessary in our line of business when we frequently need to confer and agree nonverbally about clients in meetings without saying a word. He’s ever so slightly bitchy, but that only comes out after a few gin and tonics at the local pub after work, but he’s a loyal, caring friend, excellent, ruthless solicitor and very good cook. He’s smiling knowingly at me, the bugger.

‘Joe, this is Hazel Chamberlayne. She was on holiday I believe when we first met, but she took me at my word that your credentials and attitude are impressive.’

He turns to me. ‘Hazel, this is Joe Ryan.’

Joe Ryan smiles, stands and offers me his hand. My instinct is to lean down, suck his fingers very slowly not taking my eyes from his. I’m ovulating at the moment, I logic. That’s why I feel so horny. And I watched Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean last night. But I didn’t feel like this a minute ago when I was smiling at the sunshine. I must be professional. I must be composed and I must stop blushing.

‘Hello, very nice to meet you.’

I give him a wide warm smile and stop breathing for a second.

‘Very nice to meet you, too.’

We sit facing each other, and Brian starts. ‘Well, Joe will be shadowing you on the Benson case, so he can see how we operate in the firm. If you could brief him this morning, Hazel, and put him up to speed that would be good. Joe’s dealt with lots of cases like this before, so I don’t think anything will be new to him but we operate in a specific way here, Joe, and you’ll learn a lot from Hazel. Benson’s behaving in a very formulaic way, as is his wife, who’s hired a good firm of solicitors, so I don’t think there will be any complications with this one. There’s no issue over child custody, well, not yet anyway, and as far as I know, the demands on both sides are reasonable. But Benson does have a temper, and I believe Hazel has suggested he see a counsellor, just in case he makes an impromptu outburst in court.’

I say nothing. I realise I am still giving Joe Ryan the same wide warm smile I gave him as I entered the room. The smile has become fixed on my face and I feel about twelve. I’m turning forty this year. Hazel, will you please grow up and behave like a grown-up and not like some adolescent schoolgirl. This is silly. This is especially silly as I didn’t want him to join the firm. I didn’t want another partner to join the firm, which was fine as it was, but Brian wanted someone else. More people are getting divorced, he says, so we’ve got to have more people to service them. I was happy as it was and despite my attraction, I’m annoyed he’s here at all. I don’t want him here. And he’s too good-looking. He’ll sleep with the clients. Not good. I must have a word with Brian when Joe’s out of the room.

Brian continues, still smiling wryly. ‘Joe will be in the office next to you, Hazel. We’re hiring a new PA this week, to replace Jennifer who’s gone on maternity leave. As you will be sharing her as well, Hazel, I think you should both interview her, either separately or collectively, whichever you prefer.’

And that’s another thing that’s pissed me off. New partner but we have to share PAs. Ridiculous, but Brian also knows my thoughts on this and has obviously decided one is good for the two of us. So doubly pissed off.

I’ve managed to control the smile and the blushes and speak. ‘That’s fine.’

Brian then proceeds to discuss all other matters. Other cases in hand which I will be dealing with over the next few months, including one that involves flying to New York. Which is great, because I can stock up on my knicker drawer with Victoria’s Secrets.

He talks about what Joe will be doing in the firm, and how we will work together. I’m listening and taking it in but it’s all a bit surreal because I’m feeling some very strong mixed emotions—annoyed and attracted at the same time. And I don’t find many men attractive these days. I’m not talking physically here—I just mean as people. Even those ones I meet out of court. I don’t play the game of boosting their egos so eventually they can knock mine down. If they say they’re not worthy of me, I let them. If they boast about their sexual prowess, I let them. And eventually they calm down, forget to impress or appear sensitive or macho and become themselves. So I haven’t been attracted to many men. I’ve spent years bringing up Sarah and working and men have made an occasional guest appearance—usually about one in every two years, when I could fit them in. I would never introduce them to Sarah for the first few months, and then I would introduce them, see how they spoke to her and dealt with her questioning. I remember her asking Dominic once if he loved me. He said he did, and she said that was nice but that he wasn’t good enough for me. One of the lesser embarrassing moments. The very few who I allowed into my diary and my heart, like I did with Dominic, they’ve broken it—so I don’t want to go there again. And especially not with someone I work with. Fran’s right. I do come across as much stronger than I am. I’m not as strong so I’m wary now, very wary of any sort of attraction—and especially one that starts in the office. Plus, I don’t want this sort of complication here. This is my territory, where I am strong and confident and focused. I don’t want a man messing up both my professional and personal life all in one go. But I’ve had the lightning bolt. I’ve never had a lightning-bolt moment. Fran is right about that, too, they do come when you least expect them. My heart jumps every time Joe Ryan utters a word. It’s very disconcerting. It’s as though I’m concentrating on the way he speaks rather than what he’s saying. He has a dark honeyed voice. He speaks neither too fast nor too slow, with considered pauses and the right inflection at the right time. For fuck’s sake, Hazel, you’re analysing his speech. Hope he doesn’t ask me anything. I’ve got to concentrate, but at least that gives me an opportunity to survey him further and take him in properly. He looks young. He looks older than twenty-nine but I’m sure he said twenty-nine. He looks midthirties, possibly early thirties. He looks younger than me. But not by much. He’s got blue, no green, no (mustn’t stare too much into his eyes now), brown eyes. Yes, brown eyes and long eyelashes. Why do men always have long eyelashes? I have to buy YSL extra-long eyelash mascara to get a decent length. Strong chin, olive skin. Or perhaps he’s been on holiday recently, probably with the girlfriend. Or perhaps it could have been with the lads. To South America or China perhaps—or if he’s square, Australia or the South of France. He’s wearing a dark blue suit so nothing new there. It’s well tailored and well fitting, but all men look good in suits. Brian always dresses well, but he’s gay so that’s to be expected. Perhaps Joe Ryan is, too. Probably for the best anyway if he is. I survey his hands. They are large and there’s no wedding ring. Which is a good thing—although this may mean he is gay, or German (German men don’t wear wedding rings), or perhaps he’s just fussy and hasn’t found the right girl yet—or has, but she won’t marry him, silly girl. Or perhaps can’t because she’s married already. There’s one signet ring perhaps given to him by his mother or lover or girlfriend. Or someone else’s girlfriend. What does he smell like? I breathe in, trying to make sense of the scent. Is he wearing aftershave or is it his natural pheromones? Can’t tell so will have to find that one out later. Over a drink at lunch perhaps. Is he slim? Can’t tell as he’s sitting down. Tall? Probably. He sits up quite straight, but perhaps he’s got a long body and short, stodgy legs, his feet dangling off the floor like some five-year-old school boy. Perhaps I should drop a pen and find out if he’s a munchkin. I drop a pen and look under the table. No, no, his feet are on the floor. Black shiny shoes. Churches. Euck. Churches, as worn by City Boys. Perhaps he’s square. But Brian wouldn’t have hired a square, nor someone gay, as he knows both wouldn’t fit into the chemistry of the office. I pick up the pen and return to the table, Brian staring at me smiling as though he knows what I’ve been doing. He probably thinks I’m trying to check out the size of Joe’s manhood. As if I could see. Not that it didn’t pass my mind.



Back with the meeting, now happily convinced Joe Ryan is a decent height, well groomed, smells tolerable and could very well be straight and unmarried, I smile again, this time more businesslike (showing the teeth).

‘I look forward to working with you, Joe. And welcome to the firm.’

‘I look forward to working with you, too, Hazel. I’m sure we’ll work well together.’

‘Right, I think that’s all for now,’ Brian says, standing up slowly, indicating the meeting is now over, for him at least. ‘First thing first, hire yourselves a new PA and, Joe, learn from Hazel—she can show you the ropes.’

As I stand to leave, Brian asks me to stay for a bit to sort out a few more items and asks Joe to settle himself into his office. Joe smiles and stands. He’s about six-three I guess. Good height for a girl of five foot nine and a half—which I happen to be. Yes, have decided we would look good together, if we ever get it together. Not that we will of course. Not that I will allow myself to.

He shakes Brian’s hand and then turns to shake mine. I’m doing very well. I think I’m doing very well. I give him a firm strong handshake, look into his deep brown eyes and smile naturally.

‘I look forward to working with you.’

Joe smiles warmly, disconcertingly says nothing as though he hasn’t heard me, or has read my body language and blushes and has already sussed me out completely, and leaves the room with one almost graceful movement.

I turn round and sit down. Brian is grinning at me from ear to ear.

‘So you like him, then?’

‘Well, yes, I’m sure he comes well recommended, Brian. I didn’t see the need of having another partner, as you well know, but I’m sure he can help with the workload.’

‘Got something about him, hasn’t he? I think the female clients will like him. We’re doing well on the male front because of you, Hazel, but we need more female clients and they prefer a man to represent them. I personally don’t see why this is as female lawyers are invariably tougher than male ones.’

‘That’s rather sexist if I may say so, Brian, but you’re probably right. I’m sure he’ll go down well. I think he’s a bit too good-looking. You know what some of these female clients are like. Vulnerable, and in walks this handsome man and hey presto, chemistry.’

‘That’s rather sexist of you if I may say so, Hazel. Joe is professional, will be professional and undoubtedly good for business. And as far as business is concerned sex has everything to do with it, as you well know. Half your clients fall in love with you when they meet you, and inevitably trust your judgement. It’s all about building confidence and if they like you, well, it helps.’

‘Yes, I know. He will be fine, I’m sure.’ I try to sound as nonchalant as possible without sounding too blasé about Joe Ryan’s appointment. But I know Brian reads me like a book. Thank goodness I’m not as transparent in court.

‘I would rather my colleagues keep their relationship professional, Hazel, but if they can’t I’m sure they will behave appropriately in the office.’

I look askance at Brian, who is still grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

‘If by that you’re suggesting I will try to seduce him you’re very much mistaken. As you well know I’m wary and fussy and he’s not my type.’

‘Tall and handsome is not your type?’

‘The office colleague. The younger man is not my type.’

‘Good. I’m sure you’ll be as professional as Joe will be. Anyway, we’re here to work and make money, make more money and then make more money still.’

I smile and turn to leave. I know Brian could tell I like Joe. Joe could probably tell I like Joe thanks to my blushing, so I won’t say anything but I do allow myself a wry smile and a, ‘Quite. Well, if that’s all, I’ll go and start making more money.’



Chapter Five




Hiring an Ugly PA







We’ve interviewed four candidates who have to replace the irreplaceable Jennifer, who has left to have her second baby and will probably never return. She says she will, but she won’t.

Last week she did leave, teary-eyed, arms full of flowers and baby gifts, waddling out the door to an awaiting taxi. Not only was Jennifer good at her job, she was good with me. She anticipated my needs and delivered before I could ask. She knew how to handle both her own PMT and mine. She knew when to speak, and more importantly when not to. I cried more than she did when she left. And now, I had to try to find another PA all over again, who would time manage my movements, but now, I have to share her with a man. I don’t like that. Only-child syndrome, I know, but I don’t like to share, especially PAs.

Especially with someone as, well, as charismatic as Joe Ryan. He may monopolise her. Perhaps we should get a male PA. Or better still he should get his own PA. But Joe Ryan doesn’t want a male PA, he tells me. He tells me he wants someone pretty and young. I think he’s joking.

So here I am, sitting in slightly messy office with Joe Ryan. We’re arguing, no debating, well, debating very heatedly, who we should choose. They’re all under thirty, two boys and two girls. All aesthetically appealing, all qualified up to their armpits and all hungry to work with us. We don’t agree.

‘A man. I would prefer a man. They’ll be efficient and we won’t have this baby problem again.’

I realise I’m arguing against my own sex here, but I don’t want either of the two girls. Both of whom are very good-looking and very smart. And both of whom barely managed to hide the thunderbolt effect Joe Ryan seems to have on the female sex. Something he is obviously used to. So I don’t want to hire them.

‘That’s being sexist against your own sex, Hazel. And Jennifer was superb. You said so yourself.’

‘I know, but this is less likely to happen with a man. Plus, I think the two girls liked you.’

‘I could use the same argument about the men.’

Yes, he could use the same argument about the men. Because I could sense they did, ‘like me’(blushing, not able to hold eye contact with me but okay with Joe. When they were able to hold eye contact, pupils becoming dilated. Quite sweet really, plus annoyed shit out of Joe, so doubly good), but I’m sure, seeing me every day they’d get over the schoolboy crush. I will probably get over the silly thing I have with Joe. Not that it is anything. I just don’t want it to get out of hand.

‘Men will leave for other reasons. They will be ambitious, they will want to move on.’

‘Well, how about we hire someone in their forties or fifties, a female, who won’t be attracted to either of us and just be good at her job, happy with it, and has done the kids, marriage, divorce and remarriage thing.’

‘Good idea. Why didn’t I think of that?’

‘You wanted someone younger. And younger isn’t necessarily better.’

Perhaps the forty thing is getting to me. I’ve never felt anything resembling jealousy toward younger women. All I remember when I was younger was being more insecure, more self-conscious, self-aware, more self-critical and more blindly ambitious than I am now. I’m more settled, kinder to myself and with other people, but I smarted at the hint of him wanting someone young. It genuinely annoyed me. And I’m annoyed I’m annoyed.

Joe smiles at me. I know he’s going to say something clever. Or something he thinks is clever.

‘So we’re decided. Ask the agency to find us a woman in her late forties, with the right qualifications…(and smiling) and preferably plain.’

I smile. ‘But not too plain. We don’t want her to scare the clients, Joe.’

Brief pause then.

‘Brian tells me it’s a big birthday for you this year.’

I’m taken back. That’s too personal for this sort of professional relationship. I’m still annoyed he was hired in the first place. And annoyed with Brian that he’s told Joe about my age. Wonder if Joe’s asked about me, or Brian offered the information.

Quickly regaining composure I say, ‘He did, did he? Yes, I’m forty this year.’

Joe looks shocked. ‘God, I thought you were ten years younger.’

I look at him. Out-and-out flirting, that was. Can’t detect signs of sycophancy or mock horror, but perhaps he’s a good actor. Perhaps he’s expecting me to say I’m as old as the person I sleep with. I don’t. I ignore and continue the game.

‘Combination of good diet, good lifestyle, good genes, exercise and enjoying my work, probably.’

‘Whatever. You look more my age than yours. You look a good twenty-nine.’

So he is twenty-nine. He looks older than his years and certainly speaks with an authority of a man older than twenty-nine. He seems well travelled and has a wider perspective which makes his understanding of what is relative so much more interesting—and useful—especially in this job. I’m surprised. I must look surprised because he says, ‘You’resurprised. Yes, everyone thinks I’m older than I am. But it helps in business and dealing with clients—you know, the credibility factor.’

‘Quite. So we’ve agreed on hiring an older PA, but not too physically challenged.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I’ll get on to it.’

I’m meeting Fran for lunch today, so perhaps I can pop into the employment agency on the way there. Four months to go till the wedding, and barring the thumb twiddling and last-minute doubts, everything’s in place.

The Caffé Nero at the corner of Chancery Lane is crowded with suits. I think they’re journalists in here today so there must be a big case on nearby. Two celebrities divorcing each other allegedly acrimoniously. I hear rumours from the two solicitors concerned it’s not acrimonious at all, but the papers need to write something. And if it isn’t, it soon will be.

I manage to zoom in on two stools by the window, sending a hack flying, and hold the seats hostage while Fran queues for tea and cake—getting two for us each in case we feel peckish and don’t want to queue again.

‘Everything is going very well, Hazel. I’ve tried to foresee all possible dilemmas, including friction within our respective families. Table plans have been worked out with political precision. All dietary requirements have been catered for. All invites have been responded to. All I now need is for the sun to shine on the day, and that would be nice. Not absolutely necessary, but nice.’

Fran looks contented and I’m pleased, very pleased for my friend. She’s turning forty and getting married for the first time, and despite having heard some—although not the worst—of my client horror stories, she is 120% positive she’s doing the right thing, to the right man at the right time. She doesn’t want to live in sin. She doesn’t want to have a child out of wedlock. Not because her parents wouldn’t approve or Daniel’s parents wouldn’t approve, but because, well, she wants to get married. Not because of the dress, or ceremony, or friends being there, or being called Mrs Daniel Carlyle. Just because, well, she instinctively knows it’s right.

‘I know it’s right, Hazel. Right time, right place, right man. I’m sure you hear that from your clients all the time. But I’m nearly forty, and I’ve learnt a lot, and think, hey, I’ve got experience and realism on my side and I haven’t lost the romance.’

‘How do you feel about turning forty?’ I ask.

‘Don’t feel anything really. I know it’s supposed to be the seminal year, but I’ve done so much in those decades, learnt a lot, loved a lot, and just feel this is a new chapter of the same book that I’m happy to be writing. So how’s things going with you?’

I tell Fran about Joe. She doesn’t interrupt.

He’s worked in the offices for three weeks now. I’ve tried to find out about him, not the superficial him on his CV, the personal life him, without being too obvious. Don’t think he has a partner because he doesn’t seem to take or make any phone calls, but perhaps he uses his mobile all the time. And I’m not going to ask him directly. He wears a light but potent aftershave. Could be Eternity. Not sure. Don’t know him that well yet, and hasn’t got naturally into conversation. Not something that you’d just drop into one, you know, ‘and by the way, what is that aftershave you’re wearing, Joe?…’” He’d know immediately that I like him and I’m not giving him the gratification of thinking that. Our relationship is and should remain purely professional. Definitely. I’ve had lunch with him a few times, with and without clients. He likes vodka and tonics, champagne, teriyaki and authentic Italian restaurants. His taste in music is eclectic. He likes Led Zeppelin, Maroon 5, Pink Floyd, the Black Crowes and The Darkness, so obviously has some taste. He likes occasionally to eat with his fingers, which I quite like actually. I find it very sexy. I do it, too. He plays tennis, squash and badminton, and talks with knowledge and enthusiasm about the games, which reminds me a bit of my dad, who played all the sports till he was sixty. They’re all individual sports, so perhaps he’s not a team player. Perhaps he doesn’t like sharing either. He’s got two brothers. He’s the middle. I like that. Middle brothers are always the most interesting. More challenging, more black-sheeplike. Eldest are invariably the most successful, most dull, most arrogant, emotionally immature and invariably unhappy for most of their lives (having been out with several eldest children and having married and divorced one, I recognise the trait). Younger brothers are spoilt and have their own chips to bear. Middle ones are fighters, manipulators, mavericks.

And Joe Ryan strikes me as a maverick. Out of court anyway. He’s quite conventional with the clients, but there’s something about Joe Ryan that I haven’t quite got my finger on. And that’s what’s bugging me. Annoying me. Intriguing me. Okay, I admit it, exciting me. He doesn’t flirt with me at all, but had mentioned I looked ten years younger than I am.

Fran smiles.

‘You can draw breath now, Hazel. First and foremost, with regards to your age, you do look ten years younger. That wasn’t false flattery. That was genuine reaction. I like the sound of him. He seems ambitious, interesting. Kind. And I like his name. Joe Ryan. Got a ring to it.’

‘Hitler has a ring to it. So does Mussolini.’

‘Do you fancy him?’

‘He bothers and interests me. And there’s that za za zoom. You know, breathlessness. Which is annoying because I’m in my work environment and it’s not the right place to be feeling breathless. I need to be focused, not wet.’

Fran thinks the ugly PA idea is a good one, in light of my ambivalence (not) to Joe Ryan. I also tell her the CV details. The fact that he lives in Barnes, got a first in Law in Oxford and would like a Labrador, but it’s impractical in London.

Fran sips her tea, absorbing everything I say by osmosis. She doesn’t speak for a few sips and then says, ‘So you don’t think he has a girlfriend?’

‘What do I care?’

‘You care. Does he have a girlfriend?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’

‘Could work. I mean you could have a relationship.’

‘Fran, don’t be silly. It’s wrong to mix business with pleasure, plus he’s too young for me. And I told you, he bothers me just by being there. By being a partner. Plus, he’s more suited to Sarah’s age than mine.’

Fran is silent again, looking at my face and smiles. I feel like the teacher in Village of the Damned when the white-haired starey-eyed children were trying to read his mind and he kept thinking of a brick wall (had to be there—it was a good film). No I’m not thinking about sleeping with him. No I’m not thinking about sleeping with him. This seems to work.

‘Well, agree with the business and pleasure. That’s not a good idea if you can’t separate the two. But if you’re mature about it, fine. As for the age thing, I don’t think that makes a difference. I’ve invariably found men and women get on better when they are from different generations. Every generation matures more quickly than the last. So older women and younger men are usually more compatible than men and women of the same age. If any are going to work, it should be this one.’

I think about what Fran says as I slowly make my way back to the office. Could I go out with a man ten years my junior? Could I show my turning-forty body to a turning-thirty male? It’s not sagging. There are no stretch marks. It’s well toned. Even lightly tanned. I’m also not afraid to make love with the lights on. But this is fanciful rubbish. Rubbish, rubbish, rubbish. He’s a work colleague, ten years my junior, ever so slightly arrogant, driven and has that tunnel vision thing—albeit cute, and probably doesn’t like me much anyway and views me more as someone who will help him on his career path or as a barrier, unless he gets me on side. Simple as that. Or perhaps that’s how he operates. The cool and calculated seducer who uses his sexuality to get ahead. Just like many a female. Could or would he go out with someone with a teenage daughter who would probably think he was a bit of all right as well? What happens if Sarah fancied him? That’s odd. That makes me feel very odd. My daughter and I vying for the same man. Oh, this is nonsense. My mind is going off at ridiculous tangents. You work with the guy—that’s it. That’s how you should keep it.

Don’t go there, Hazel. Not worth it. Keep it professional. Keep it simple. Keep it cool. And keep looking for a suitable PA.



Chapter Six




The Friday Night In







It’s Friday night and I’m sitting in my sitting room alone with my family size pack of Minstrels, glass of South African Chardonnay as recommended by Waitrose, watching Pride and Prejudice on TV. Sarah is out at the cinema watching something rated PG, with her school friends Hermione and Octavia (am I the only unpretentious mother at her school?). I’m trying to get lost in the romance of the story, but my instinct keeps telling me Darcy is nothing more than a poor girl’s wet dream and Elizabeth Bennet would spend the rest of her life, post credits, rolling in domestic misery, undervalued, emotionally bullied and sexually repressed.

I’m cross. Perhaps it’s because I’m in on a Friday night, my period is due, and the forty-minute run at 11.5 on the treadmill, one forty-five-minute spinning class and ten minutes on the cross trainer, hasn’t managed to burn off the sexual frustration—which I think my irritability stems from. Perhaps. Or perhaps it stems from the fact my builder hasn’t turned up to redo the floor in my sitting room. The fact the plumber hasn’t turned up to fix the downstairs shower that spurts water over the rest of the room every time I turn it on. The fact my gardener, James Huxley, didn’t smile at me as he usually does. Perhaps he’s premenstrual, too. Or the fact Joe didn’t come back from court today and we were going to go for a drink after work to chat about the new PA’s workload (Marion Harper, fifty-five, married with three grown children and no visible signs of sexuality) and the hearing ran late and he couldn’t and didn’t get back in time. Of course, these are all men letting me down. And they’re all things that I could do myself, but chose not to. Perhaps I should find a female builder and plumber and gardener who would be more reliable. I can’t help but think to myself that men are simple, self-involved creatures. But then, who’s being self-involved now? Here I am, feeling utterly indulgent, self-pitying and pathetic on a Friday night.

‘Oh, Hazel. Not all men are shallow,’ I can hear Fran whisper in my ear.

As I watch Elizabeth Bennet swoon at Darcy emerging from what looks like an ornamental lake, I know this is all bullshit. And I wonder how men and women manage to communicate at all. It’s not that men think differently to women. It’s that they think on different levels and at a different pace. Men don’t care that they can’t emote as deeply as women. It’s not just that they can’t feel as deeply as women, it’s the fact they don’t care that they can’t. And that’s the crux of the matter. Women think that the men care that they’ve got this emotional shortfall. Men don’t, in my experience, give a fuck.

And I do. I do give a fuck, and fall in love, probably too easily. Three years ago, before Dominic, I fell in love with Harry, who owned a boat and a horse and a house in Vancouver, but also failed to tell me he had a wife in France and a mistress in New York amongst his possessions. Before that, I almost went out with Steve, but he insisted on seeing his ex-girlfriend on Saturday nights to celebrate that they’d been going out for two years. When I told him this was taking the piss, he said it was just bad timing the anniversary was a Saturday night and said that I was lucky to be with him because he could have fifteen other women if he wanted them. So I’ve had only a few men in my life since divorcing David. And of course, I’ve healed from that as well. Eventually. I suppose being a divorce lawyer didn’t help my attitude toward him, anticipating he would be as manipulative and deceitful during the separation as he proved to be during the marriage, and seeing him match and occasionally exceed even my lowly expectations. Having Sarah meant it would take longer to get over the anger and sadness as we had to stay in touch and meet each other every other weekend for her sake. The being in touch was something neither of us wanted. And now, well, now Sarah was going to college and the contact wouldn’t be as often or as necessary. Sarah could make her own way to his apartment in the Barbican where he kept his possessions—the BMW 3 series convertible (according to most of my male friends, wankers drive these cars, so am reassured by this), the state-of-theart phone (as used by Uma Thurman in Kill Bill 2), TV (with a screen that moves where you do, er, why?) and hifi that makes a spaghetti junction out of most of his polished wood floor space. Plus a computer and PlayStation 2 and younger woman—ten years his junior, five foot nothing with dowry, primed to iron shirts and make pies and cakes, which I never wanted to.

Elizabeth is kissing Darcy, probably with tongues. Minstrels bag is empty and a bottle of Chardonnay has somehow disappeared. I’ll text Fran and see if she’s in.



MESSAGE SENT

How are you Fran? Are you doing anything? Fancy a

chat? Hxx



Nothing back. Probably switched off, or with Daniel finalising the finite details of contingency plan C should contingency plan B fail.

Ten o’clock and I’m going to bed. I want to cry. No, no, I’m not going to cry. I’m going to put some music on and bop around the room. ‘This Love’ by Maroon 5. Yep. Have that one. I’m dancing slowly, then slowly undressing. Yep, slowly undressing. I don’t need a man to satisfy myself after all. Some music, some wine, some Minstrels, the right mood and hey presto, I can do all the turning on. I dance over to the front door. Lock from the inside, just in case Sarah comes back early, before her mother does. Blinds drawn, curtains closed, lie on sofa and begin to stroke. First, very gently over my stomach and then up to my nipples and along the underside of my arm. Very slowly around my breasts, the left then the right, then down to my belly button and toward the arrow. The stroke becomes more urgent and I feel my back starting to arch and imagine my fingers are someone else’s pushing deep inside me then out again, as I imagine someone else urging me to come.

BROOOOMMMMMMMM.

My mobile has received a message. The sound my phone makes when receiving a text message resembles a Formula One racing car just crossing the finishing line. Strangely appropriate I think for the present moment. I refuse to stop but the noise has taken the urgency away and I sit up semi-euphoric in a state of mild frustration, on the verge of coming but unable to. Expecting the message to be from Fran I read it.





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/sarah-tucker/the-younger-man/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.