The Younger Man (7 page)

At which point Carron bursts into tears. This is good. The fact that she sobs for a good ten minutes becomes a bit worrying, as well as exhausting, for her to do and for us to watch. But as I’ve been there myself and have seen many women and a few men in the same situation, I know what to say, what not to say, how to say it and when to say it. It’s affecting me more than it does with clients who spend £300 excluding tax in my office sobbing uncontrollably for hours on end because Carron is a friend and I not only feel her pain, I want to take it on. I’m also not charging for the tears or the advice. I don’t want her to have the full burden. I don’t want her to handle the pain alone. But I can’t offload the pain that way. Experience has taught me I can’t.

So as I’m sitting next to her, I lean over and hug her for the full duration. My blouse is soaked with her tears by the time she eventually raises her heavy head. I can tell
she can’t physically get up out of the chair because she’s distraught with grief so I just hug her like I used to do Sarah when she was seven and had just returned from school, crying because some eight-year-old had punched her in the face. I was never a conventional mother. I told Sarah next time the eight-year-old punched her, she should punch her back and continue to punch her back really hard until she was on the ground, and say to her she would get the same treatment if she ever did it again. I remember telling her to have as many of her friends around her when it happened as possible so they could act as witnesses to the bully’s defeat. It worked. Of course, I was called in and Sarah was accused of being troublesome in the playground and I met the aforementioned eight-year-old’s mother, a coward and a bully herself. I told her and the teacher that it was very much up to the children to deal with life in the playground because it was just the same in the outside world, just that the playground was bigger and the guns and swords and knives were real and that words do hurt and are able to injure and kill. But that the arguments were just as petty and usually about possession and jealousy and greed. She didn’t really have an answer for that. But Sarah never got hit by the eight-year-old again and nor did anyone else in that particular playground by that particular bully.

Carron’s a noisy crier, and I identify with that. When I’m that distressed, quite frankly, I don’t give a damn who hears me. I just cry. None of the girls say anything. They just sit and look on sympathetically. And Valerie gets wa
tery-eyed and Fran feels a tinge of discomfort because she’s just getting married in a few months and I can sense is getting pangs about am I doing the right thing if it causes so much pain if it goes wrong. Hell, I would be if I were her.

Even Angus realises he should wait till the sobbing subsides before he returns with the drinks.

She gradually quietens and just hugs me. Angus distributes the drinks and says he’ll return in five for orders for the food.

Even Doreen just smiles and nods.

Carron lifts her head and looks at me and says ‘So sorry, Hazel. I’ve got mascara all over your blouse. And it’s soaking wet.’

‘It doesn’t matter, Carron.’

She turns round to all the others. ‘I’m so sorry, chaps.’

Valerie tries to lean over to hug her but gets trapped in her chair because her bum is so big. This lightens the moment and makes Carron giggle.

‘God, I wish I could cry like that. I’d get rid of all this water retention.’

Carron laughs out loud now, but she looks tired with tears and lack of sleep. She tells us how the children are doing and how she’s making them feel as secure as possible. In the circumstances. And that Dennis has moved out and sees them every other weekend, but that he doesn’t really know what to do with them when he has them. He would have preferred boys, she tells us. Dennis told her this when she gave birth.

‘I’ve been to counselling with him but only to talk about the children. Mind you I don’t trust him and don’t want to be in the same room as him for more than a minute, as he uses every conversation, every opportunity to emotionally drag me down. They’re only young, but the girls know what’s happening. The counsellor said that I should say to the girls that Mummy and Daddy both love them and that it is nothing to do with them that we don’t get on. That it’s not their fault. It’s Mummy and Daddy’s fault that we messed up. She says that children tend to think that way, because they think they are the centre of the universe.’

‘Of course I want to say that it’s ninety-nine percent Daddy’s fault because he’s a selfish wanker and only one percent Mummy’s fault as she tried to keep the marriage together, but you can’t do that, can you.’

‘And they’ll know, Carron,’ Doreen chips in. ‘Children absorb situations by osmosis. You don’t have to tell them things. They know. They will learn what their daddy is like as they grow up. Don’t put him down in front of them, he will do the damage himself. Emily and Madeline are six and seven, aren’t they?’

Carron nods yes. “It’s a sensitive age, so I’ve got to be careful. They’ve both taken it badly and think it’s their fault, hence reassuring them every day it isn’t.’ Bottom lip trembles again.

Everyone pauses for a sip of their drink. I switch the conversation to fluff. Literally.

‘I gave myself a Brazilian a few weeks ago,’ I say loudly, turning a few heads at neighbouring tables.

‘What, a Brazilian man?’ Valerie laughs.

‘No, a Brazilian wax. You have a strip. A bit. I have an arrow pointing up.’

‘Surely down would be better. You know, help men find their way and all that,’ says Doreen playfully.

‘I thought about having it pointing down but that means I’ve got to expose more and this way it’s better the bottom’s in the tail end of the arrow rather than at the point. If you know what I mean,’ I say trying to explain without getting too explicit about it.

‘Daniel gets more turned on if I don’t shave,’ Fran says matter-of-factly. ‘He thinks it’s more feminine to have something there so I have it trimmed.’

Carron says quietly, ‘Well, I haven’t looked down there for ages. I’m right off sex at the moment.’

‘Me, too. Mind you, I can’t even see mine,’ Valerie says stroking her bump.

Looking down at her own crotch, then at me, Doreen asks, ‘Do they still shave you there when you have a baby? I know they used to. I got a complete wax before I had my three simply because I didn’t want some nurse shaving me when I felt and looked like shit.’

‘They didn’t do that to me, but it didn’t seem to matter,’ I reply.

‘Did you have yours by caesarean or naturally?’ asks Valerie.

‘Naturally,’ I say, trying not to sound smug.

‘I never asked you, did you stretch a lot? Did you tear?’ Doreen asks.

‘You did ask me at the time, Doreen, I just didn’t give you an answer as I was with David and some of his work colleagues at a banker’s dinner party and they didn’t seem to want to know about the bloody reality of childbirth over the beef Stroganoff. You also asked me if I ate my placenta.’

‘Well, did you tear?’ Doreen asks, turning other table heads again.

‘No, didn’t tear,’ I say, trying to sound as though we’re talking about opening envelopes rather than giving birth. ‘Very lucky. No stitches. I wasn’t induced. Made David have sex with me.’

‘’Full or oral?’ Doreen asks, keeping the heads turned and mouths now open.

‘Oral,’ I say quietly, having given up on the envelope scam. ‘And it worked.’

‘Oh, I don’t want Harry anywhere near me.’ Valerie shudders. ‘I’m scared he will damage the baby.’

I explain to Valerie that she should go on top. ‘Men like that anyway because it’s more weight bearing down on them and they feel more submissive and vulnerable. That’s why men really like their women fat. It’s like riding a moped, fun to ride but not sexy to be seen with.’

‘Didn’t he go off with a skinny ribs?’ Doreen asks tactlessly, knowing the ‘Charlotte’ is skinny herself.

‘Actually no, he went off with a girl who was quite plump and she lost lots of weight.’

‘Perhaps she wanted to be more like you,’ Doreen remarks.

‘She had to fill her own shoes, Doreen. No one can fill mine. And no one will fill yours either, Carron. You are a very difficult act to follow and this girl, whatever her name is…’ (I remember it but am not going to say it and even Doreen is not ruthless enough to remind me) ‘…has an impossible task. Dennis suffers from what most men suffer from. ME. You know. ME me me me me me me me me me me. Me, myself, I. She’ll get to know that in time and she’s got to make footprints of her own, because you are unique. And Dennis will realise that in two years, maybe five, maybe just before he cops it. By then, you’ll be moved on. You don’t think it now, but you will.’

‘Everyone says that,’ Carron murmurs.

‘I know. Because it’s true. I remember my counsellor saying that to me every time I saw her as though she wanted it to become my mantra. She said it would only work if I believed it. And eventually I did, and hey presto, here I am, with wonderful child, good health, lovely home and a job I love and find challenging and a fab set of friends in you all.’

Angus returns asking for our orders.

I play head girl.

Monkfish—a whole one—for Doreen, tuna for Carron and Fran, halibut for Valerie and I have the chicken. ‘Do we want wine?’ Yes, we all nod we do. Chardonnay, the one that Fran is having for her wedding. ‘Water, a bottle of still and sparkling. Think that’s about it.’

Over our food we talk about what we’re planning to do for our respective birthdays. None of us have organ
ised anything, though mine is the soonest—but I’m planning to be at home, with hopefully Sarah and me just celebrating. The girls think it would be good if we could go somewhere like EuroDisney where we can behave like kids. Valerie is scared she will get stuck in one of the rides, but Doreen assures her it’s okay, and tells us she’ll get Jane, her PA, to organise the event.

As we start to eat, Angus leans over to my ear and whispers, ‘So what’s this I hear about you dating a Brazilian guy ten years your junior?’

‘I
’ve decided to tell her.’

‘Tell her what?’ Joe walks into my office without knocking on Monday morning at 8.30 a.m. carrying double espresso in one hand and
FT
in the other. My Monday mornings are always challenging, but recently they’ve become quite eventful.

‘You’ve decided to tell her what?’

‘That I want to separate and that we can’t live together anymore. Do you mind me talking to you, Hazel?’

‘Not at all, not at all. Please sit down.’

Joe sits down, drops
FT
on the floor and coffee on my desk. His hair looks slightly messy. And there’s some stubble. Not usual solicitor look but I like it. Sort of a smarter version of Jamie Oliver. It quite suits him. He continues.

‘I’ve been trying to deal with this with kindness and
thought I was being kind but don’t think I was. You don’t know much about me, Hazel, but I’m not a bad person and I didn’t expect to meet you. I haven’t been happy with Fiona for some time now but haven’t done anything about it, because, well, because I love her, I’m just not in love with her any more. And we’re good friends. And I was starting to feel, well, this is as good as it gets. And now, well, now, all her friends are getting married and having children and she’s thirty-seven, and I know she wants to get married and have children and I was just plodding along and then I meet you. I meet you and, well, I don’t know whether it would be kinder to stay or to go. And I don’t know if I’ve been kind by staying all this time when I feel it wasn’t right, or it would be kinder to leave now, or have left all those years ago.’

What can I say? What do I say to this man who looks very tired and stressed and like many of the clients I initially see on their first or second meeting with me about petitioning for divorce or having just received one.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Well, I’ll have to leave the house or she will. One of us has to leave. She’ll be very distressed but she has family—a large family around her and this will help her. We also have mutual friends—a lot of them—and this also will help her, if not me.’

‘Does she suspect you’ve met someone else?’

‘I made the error of mentioning you a lot when I first joined the company. Believe it or not, in glowing terms, and I think that’s why I got the impromptu meeting about
lunch. She thinks you’re lovely and, well, everything I said you were. She asked me direct if I was seeing you. I said no. She asked me if I had slept with you, I said no. She asked me if I had kissed you. She asked me a lot of questions. So although she may suspect I think she knows I wouldn’t do that. But I feel guilty and I’m upset, but I can’t stop thinking about you, Hazel. And I work with you. So it’s not as if I can have a break from you. From seeing your face every morning. Hearing your voice. Being near you.’

I’m stunned, feeling sick again and with an incredible urge to get up, walk round the table and kiss him passionately on the lips and allow him to wrap his arms around my waist and pull me to him. But I don’t, because I know it wouldn’t be right, though it would feel right. I know that he has to sort his life out because I can’t do it for him or become involved. I don’t want him to offload his guilt or angst onto me because it’s not fair. But because he’s spoken the way he has, with the feeling he has for both Fiona’s feelings and his own, I like him more. I, well, I more than like him.

‘You’ve got to sort this out by yourself, Joe. I like you a lot. And yes, I think there is a chemistry between us. I thought initially it was just lust. Just chemistry—and that is difficult to work with, but then I’ve got to know you over the days and weeks and I like you. I enjoy being with you in and out of the courtroom. But I’ve met Fiona, and I know you think she doesn’t know, but I think she does. I think she loves you very much and whatever you do now, it will break her heart. I know. I’ve been there. So
be kind. Be honest and be kind. If it’s a separation, don’t say it’s a trial separation and give her hope. Because she will hope. If you tell her now it’s over, but there is no one else, you won’t be lying. Not technically. And give yourself some space. Christ, after twelve years, you need space from a relationship to find your own identity again. What is true for a woman is also true of a man. You need that time. And so does she.’

‘But I’ve wasted so much of her life. I haven’t given her a child or married her. I haven’t given her the security of either of those things. And as she mentioned to me a few times last night in tears, she’ll be forty soon.’

‘So what’s wrong with being forty? I’m forty this year.’

‘Yes, but you’ve been married. You’ve got a child and she hasn’t. She’s waited for me to make my mind up. And I have. And it’s not to spend the rest of my life with her. And that’s not kind.’

‘Would staying with her, marrying her, having children, be kinder? Are you happy enough for that? You say you love her—is there enough love and friendship to make it last. If you have children, as you well know, it’s different. You’ve got to think about things like this. You’ve got to think, Joe, about what would be kinder for her and for you. If you feel there is enough there to work on, you must work for it. If not, then you must go and tell her there is no turning back.’

‘But I feel so guilty.’

‘Then give her the house.’

‘I don’t feel that guilty.’

‘Then don’t give her the house. But make a decision.’

‘I have. We’re separating. I was thinking of asking you about how I should tell her it’s over for good. But thought that inappropriate. You’re not exactly the right person to bounce ideas off, are you?’

‘Wrong person to bounce ideas off, Joe. All I will say is be self-deprecating when you do it. If you cry she’ll either pity you or think you’re pathetic and need mothering—neither outcome of which will help you or her. Don’t say “I need space, feelings change, you could do better with someone else, you’re too good for me, we don’t talk any more, or I think of you as a sister”. All of which may be true of course, but no girl, especially one you’ve been sleeping with for over twelve years, wants to hear it. Of course, you could start behaving like a twat, in which case she’ll think “he’s a twat, what did I ever see in him?”, but it’s been twelve years so she should know you inside out by now. Whatever you do don’t tell her you like someone else. It’s good she has a large family and good friends to go to, who are I hope are balanced, intelligent and will not goad her into either killing herself or killing you or cutting up your clothes. Don’t try to be nice and don’t get nasty. If you do it right she will hate you for about a year, may be a couple. If you get it wrong, she will hate you forever.’

‘Oh, that’s okay then. I feel much better. Must remember to ask you about all my personal problems.’

I smile. He looks stressed but he’s brought this on himself. No one else has.

‘You asked. I give advice on how to behave in matters of separation with as little blood as possible. There are no children involved, unless you can count your behaviour as childish, and I don’t know about when she moved in and whose money is whose, but you know as well as I do all the ins and outs of situations like this as far as the technicalities are concerned.’

‘I know.’

He turns to go. Then turns back.

‘Can you do a drink after work today?’

‘No, David is dropping off some boxes at the house. I said I would be in to collect them.’

Joe looks miffed that I’m, I suppose on the face of it, putting my ex before him, but I’m not, I’ve just made an arrangement and am sticking to it. And a drink with Joe at this time, when he’s feeling this vulnerable is probably not a good thing. Vulnerability is very provocative in a man.

He turns and leaves again. I feel as though I’ve flattened him with my honesty, but I think it’s for the best. I’ve tried to be as unconnected as possible, but it’s difficult because I like and fancy Joe now, and that makes it difficult. I have an emotional attachment and the more I get to know him, the more I like him and the more I’m inclined to let my feelings get in the way of better judgement. Like wanting to give him space. Because at this moment I feel I’m on the edge of wanting to get to know him and don’t want him to have space. Not from me anyway. And on top of that, all of that, I have compassion for Fiona. I
know when he tells her, it may not come as a surprise, but it will be out in the open and when it’s out there—the words are out there—‘I want to separate, for good’—they hang there for days like a bad smell that won’t go away. They take on a force of all their own so that any word of kindness or reason is always stained by the truth of wanting to go separate ways. She doesn’t look hard or a bitch or arrogant or predatory. She looks nice. She looks gentle. She looks kind. Of course, if she knew what Joe and I almost did at the Pied Paella she would probably look very different—but this is understandable in the circumstances. Not that it would be easier if she looked nasty, but perhaps understandable why Joe doesn’t feel he is in love with her any more. Perhaps it’s just a transitory thing. Perhaps he’s just nervous of committing and wants a last fling before he ties the knot and I’m the one. The chosen one. But I’m not that sort of girl. I’m not the last fling girl. And I’m starting to think Doreen is right. I do fucking pick ’em.