The Younger Man (9 page)

There are photos of drinks parties, and the time David dressed up with friends in black tie and dark glasses, a group of bankers called the Guinness Eight—although nine invariably turned up for the piss-up—and the girls all wore little black dresses and mine was particularly little because I was at the anorexic stage of our relationship when I didn’t want to feel anything—anger, passion, lack of it, resentment, sadness—and not eating helped. And I can barely recognise Hazel Chamberlayne in any of these photos either. It’s a bit like a scene from the
Twilight Zone.
Someone’s showing me photos of myself and I don’t recognise them. It’s a bit creepy. There are photos of our honeymoon. Must bin those. And the time we went to Disney World in the States. That was good. That was before we got married. I remember being very happy then. It wasn’t all bad—our relationship. Perhaps I should suggest Benson do a similar thing, although I think he’s ceremonially burnt all the images of Mrs Benson but perhaps in time, in ten years or twenty years’ time, he may think differently. Perhaps.

Perhaps Sarah should keep these after all. I have some for Sarah already, but it’s unfair of me not to let her see them. So I don’t bin anything. I think if her dad wants her to have these, then I should let her sift through herself. But deep down, I hope she looks through and bins the lot—especially the ones of David grinning inanely at me, as if to say, you can’t escape, you can’t escape. I did darling, I did, thank goodness.

When Sarah comes in I tell her about the boxes.

‘Oh, I’ll look when I’ve got time, Mum. I’d prefer to look together if that’s okay with you. Then we can decide what we want to keep and what we want to chuck.’

‘They’re for you, Sarah.’

‘I know, but, well, the memories weren’t good ones. They’re the past, and they should stay there.’

‘They weren’t all bad.’

‘I know they weren’t all bad, but I don’t need reminding of them. And neither do you. They’ll always be with you and Dad and one day, when I’m older I’ll look, but not yet. Keep them in the loft and I’ll look at them one day. But not now. Are you planning anything for your birthday, Mum?’

‘Maybe going to EuroDisney with the girls, but apart from that, no.’

‘Right, okay, then, I’ll cook dinner for you on your birthday—just the two of us—okay?’ She beams with a twinkle in her eye.

‘That would be lovely.’

As I put the boxes in the loft that evening, I think how
I’ve dealt with my fears and pain and anger, and if I’ve just bottled it all up and put it in boxes which may explode at any time, like Benson. I don’t think so. I think I’ve dealt with my stuff okay. Perhaps I’ll explode on the day I turn forty as I’m told some women do. When all their past achievements and failures flash before their eyes and they think ‘what have I done?’. But climbing down from the loft, I’m pretty cool about everything. I’m not in denial about getting older, getting more wrinkles (which I see as character—why anyone wants Botox I don’t know. Who wants to go round looking like a startled rabbit all the time?) or getting any of those other physical ailments women over forty suffer from. I’ll take it in my stride, with grace and humour I hope, much as I do everything these days. I want to prepare an action list of things I want to do before my forty-first birthday though. Ten things that will stretch and challenge me. It’s strange, as I put all the memories, some good, some bad in the loft to be taken down who knows when, I feel less boxed in than ever. The little girl in the photos looked afraid of life and herself and her sexuality and her boyfriend, who later became her husband. Perhaps the old Hazel should stay in the box. This Hazel thinks out of it these days.

‘I
don’t need counselling!’ Benson screams at Joe.

Mr Benson is screaming at Joe, who is managing to hold back the laughter or anger—can’t work out which emotion.

Joe has just suggested Mr Benson might be helped if he went to see a counsellor for anger management.

‘Outbursts in court about the judge are not a good idea,’ Joe says calmly.

‘’The bloke was a fucking wanker,’ Benson replies, snorting like some enraged horse.

‘Telling him this is not a good idea,’ says Joe. ‘I am sure even you realise this, Mr Benson.’

‘I realise this, but honestly, the decision to investigate further into my affairs—is that really necessary? Can’t you stop them from doing this?’

‘No,’ replies Joe.

‘I’ve managed to hide—’

I interrupt Benson. I don’t want him to tell us something that prejudices his case. ‘May I remind you, Mr Benson, anything you tell us we are obliged to reveal to the court and Mrs Benson’s solicitors. So please keep this in mind when you are telling us anything.’

‘Oh right. Right.’

He stops shouting and thinks for a bit. Smiles and sits down.

Benson ponders. ‘So you think counselling would help me?’

‘I think so,’ says Joe. ‘It’s helped many of our clients.’

‘And she can’t say I’m nuts because I’m going to a counsellor?’ Benson asks more calmly.

‘On the contrary, Mr Benson, it shows you are a responsible human being and furthermore, responsible father.’

‘Right.’

He thinks again. Head in hands. ‘Right, so do you recommend anyone?’

‘We have a list of qualified counsellors we can recommend,’ I say. ‘I think you will find they will be very helpful. Not only with your anger, but also other anxieties you may have. Anger may only be the symptom of issues, not the cause.’

‘That fucking bitch was the cause of my anxieties.
Is
the cause of my anxieties. I can tell you that. I don’t need a fucking counsellor to tell me that.’

‘Here is a list. I have starred those ones I think most appropriate. We don’t have another court appearance for at least another six weeks, so I suggest you organise an initial meeting and see if you can see them on a regular basis. About two times a week possibly.’

‘Will it cost a fortune?’

‘It may end up saving you a lot of money if you are able to control yourself in court, Mr Benson,’ I say, offering him a cup of water as he’s demolished the previous one.

Mr Benson calms down. He stands and shakes hands with both of us, then leaves the meeting room muttering, ‘Kill Gill, Kill Gill, Kill Gill.’ Obviously, his wife’s first name.

I return to my office and close the door. And smile at Joe, who is smiling back at me. We haven’t been able to talk about anything personal since we spoke in this office last week. I don’t know if he’s moved out of the house, or she’s moved out of the house, or they’re back together again or what. So I ask, ‘How are you?’

‘Okayish,’ he says, slumping down into my chair. ‘We’ve had lots of talks. She’s stronger than I thought she was. She’s agreed to move out rather than me, which I feel bad about. She says she loves me and wants me back the way I was when we first met.’

I smile. I remember saying those words to David all those years ago.

‘I think she feels let down. She knows it hasn’t been right for some time. I tried to break it up last year, but
there were so many tears I thought I would try to make it work, but it hasn’t been right. And then I met you.’

‘So I’m a catalyst. But you’re not leaving her for me, are you? This puts an emotional burden on me that I don’t need or want.’

‘No, I was unhappy in my relationship, but you do have something to do with my actions. Why I’m doing it now.’

‘Does she suspect you like me?’

‘She hasn’t asked any more about you. She said when she met you that you’d be the sort of woman I’d go for.’

I smile. ‘What sort of woman is that?’

‘You fishing for compliments, Ms Chamberlayne? She was very sweet about you, Hazel, which only made it worse. We have history—twelve years of it and a lot of it has been good.’

‘Then why don’t you try to make a go of it, Joe? Do you still love her?’

‘Yes, I do, but I’m not in love with her and I can’t change the way I feel. And it’s not just because of you, it’s been there a long time. I have tried to fall in love with her again, but it didn’t work. And I thought I was being kind by staying, but I’m not. I went to a wedding last month. Her best friend was getting married in Devon. And it just polarised the whole issue. The fact I was so unhappy. Am so unhappy. I wanted to text you or call you from the reception and I’d just met you. Think I’d been here a week and I thought, hey, if I ring you, you’ll think I’m nuts. And now, I’m excited about you. About, well, the possibility of us.’

‘I understand. And I understand about the history. At least you can make a new history for yourself, and so can she. You don’t have children, so you can give each other space and there isn’t a constant reminder of the good and bad times beaming away at you each day, like I had with Sarah. You see, I understand how Fiona feels. I was her once. I understand her feelings of betrayal and loss and bereavement. If she genuinely felt you’d left her for another woman, she’d feel angry and you might see a different side to her. So to save her pride and your reputation—I’m sure you don’t want to be perceived by mutual friends as having gone from one relationship straight to another—I suggest you spend time by yourself for a few months.’

‘Or keep our relationship a secret.’

‘It doesn’t work that way, Joe. And with all due respect, I don’t want to be a secret. She will find out, and you need time by yourself. It will give you time to deal with your baggage, rather than, well, offloading onto me or whoever happens to come along.’

‘It’s going to be difficult.’

‘I know. We work together. We see each other every day. We’re going to New York together soon. We should both try to be professional. No kissing, no sex, no guilt.’

‘I feel guilty and I haven’t done anything. I haven’t even kissed you.’

‘But you’ve thought about it and that’s why you’re feeling guilty. Not Catholic, are you?’

‘No, just human.’

He smiles and leaves me wondering how professional and restrained I can be with him in the office, and allow him the space he needs now. Perhaps for New York I should leave the La Perla at home, after all.

S
heryl Crowe’s all-time greatest single girl’s anthem blares from my personal CD player. Music conjures up moments in my life like nothing else. ‘Oh Come All Ye Faithful’ was playing outside my hospital room as I gave birth to Sarah. ‘Nobody Does it Better’ by Carly Simon, theme tune to
The Spy Who Loved Me,
when David proposed and ‘I Hate You So Much Right Now’ by I can’t remember who, though she did sound very annoyed, was my theme tune for a few years after we got divorced. Sheryl’s tune reminds me of a lover from my past. A particularly wonderful one. Of furtive fumblings in the passenger seat of his car as he drove me home, trying to concentrate on an endless road, but occasionally catching sight of my teasing lit by the moonlight and occasional street lamps. Of that sick lustful yearn
ing. That feeling I now have for Joe. Joe, bless him, has Billy Joel’s ‘New York State of Mind.’ No matter. I’m sure it will pass.

The five of us are on a train going to EuroDisney for the day. No men. Just the girls with over twenty-four hours of chat inside them. We are hoping Valerie doesn’t give birth but if it’s going to be born, there are worse places than EuroDisney. Perhaps she’ll call it Daisy or Minnie. Valerie scowls at the thought and tells us politely to fuck off. We’ve decided to stay the night in the Disneyland Hotel, onsite, so we get to go in an hour before the park opens to the plebs. The girls all want a fluffy Mickey Mouse, except me, who’s always felt Donald got a really bad press and needed love. So I’m buying one of him and a Daisy for Joe. Now isn’t that naff.

‘Don’t be so anti-social and get those earplugs out and talk to us’, shouts Doreen over Sheryl. I do as I’m told.

‘Now who’s bought the champagne? Has anybody bought the champagne?’ Doreen shouts down the carriage as the girls climb on board with bottles of the pink stuff and Marks & Spencer best of range.

‘I have!’ yells Carron. ‘I’ve got the champagne. Think Fran’s got the food. What have you got, Valerie?’

‘If I don’t sit down soon, probably contractions,’ replies Valerie. ‘Have you booked two seats for me, Doreen?’

‘No, but it’s pretty empty in this carriage. We’re travelling business so they’re wider anyway, but you can have one all to yourself.’

‘I will need one all to myself.’

‘Fine,’ shouts Doreen. ‘You sit there. Fran, bring the food here. Hazel, Carron, you okay?’

‘Yeah, we’re okay,’ I say.

Carron tells us she’s met someone. He’s a friend of Dennis. Or was a friend of Dennis. He’s not now as he’s sleeping with Carron. He’s not married, but she’s fancied him for a long time. He’s divorced with four children, grown up, own business and has been very sweet according to Carron. ‘He said he got to know the real me ironically when Dennis was talking about me, and he saw what a wanker, as he called him, Dennis had been, and decided to call me and ask if he could be of help.’

Doreen smiles. ‘And he obviously was.’

Carron smiles. ‘Obviously.’

We’re all pleased Dennis’s ex-friend has put a smile back on Carron’s face. I know in two years Carron will be in a much better place emotionally than she is now. Fran says she won’t mention the wedding preparations for the duration of the trip as it’s starting to bore even her, so that’s all fine.

Methinks I dislike
maid of honour
though. Sounds like a poshed-up version of old maid. I’d rather be called a train adjuster, or a flower holder, or something. Maid of honour sounds old. There are some things which make you sound older even when you’re not. And maid of honour is one of them. Like Spinster. I ask the girls if they’ve done a list of all those things they want to do before they’re fifty. Because I have.

Doreen says she hasn’t but that it’s a good idea. She gets
a notebook out and writes FIFTY MUST-DOS. BEFORE.

I get my list of must-dos and read aloud.

I look up and see their faces.

‘Well, that’s a nice mix of the material, spiritual, aspirational, emotional and downright ridiculous. You want to achieve them in that order?’ Fran asks. ‘Is that their order of importance or order in which you thought of them?’

‘Thought of the material, the experiences, the fantasies and then the spiritual.’

‘Don’t you want to have another child?’

‘No,’ I say.

‘All the things seem very selfish. There’s nothing with Joe in there. Or men in there.’

‘Learning to love well. That’s him really.’

‘That could be anyone. How about getting married or being less self-centred.’

‘Fran, what’s come over you?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I’m jealous. I see you all and you’re enjoying life and you don’t have a man. Well, you do have a man, but you’re not tied down. You don’t have any ties and I’m getting married and all I think about it is that I’m getting responsibilities and not only that, I will have to compromise. I don’t feel my life is beginning, I feel it’s narrowing and this is what I’ve wanted, put on my action list since I was ten and now, well, I don’t think I want it. I love Daniel, don’t get me wrong, I do. But I thought about what Doreen said over lunch at Le Pont, about marriage being no more than a contract.’

‘Oh, ignore me, darling. I come out with such crap sometimes.’

‘No, you don’t, Doreen, you do sometimes, but not then. Marriage is no more than a legal contract, you yourself know that, Hazel. You deal with this particular contract every day and get both parties to read the small print they failed to do when they signed it. As for the spiritual side, no one believes in God any more. More people believe in the Church than God, which is ever so slightly hypocritical so why I’m getting married in a church is beyond me, because, well, I believe in God, but I don’t have any time for the church or religion. And neither does Daniel. That’s one of the reasons I love him. He has no
hypocrisy in him whatsoever. But by doing this, by marrying this way, well, it is hypocritical.’

I look at Fran. She is going through what I know every woman goes through usually a month, sometimes the year before she gets married. Her last year of being single. The year of doubt and temptation and have I done the right thing and do I want to be with this man, faithful to this man for ever. And will he be good for me as well as to me. Fran is so levelheaded, so grounded, I thought she would have dealt with this and moved on, but she seems to be stuck. Perhaps it’s because she’s got close friends who’re going through divorce, a best friend who’s a divorce lawyer, and is turning forty, a seminal age by anyone’s standards. So I say, ‘These are last-minute nerves. Everyone has them. You’re getting married in a month’s time and I know at the moment you probably feel as though you’ve been duped for most of your life by society into thinking this, this walking down the aisle thing, is what it’s all about. Well, it’s not, but in my view, marriage is, or has become another box into which you neatly put companionship and friendship and sex. Ultimately, it’s what you want it to be—not what someone else says it might be. As long as you agree on what it means to both of you, that’s fine. Screw everyone else’s opinion. It’s your and Daniel’s that matters.’

‘I’m older and wiser. I should know better.’

‘Do you think with age comes wisdom?’ I ask, thinking of Sarah and Joe. ‘I used to think that. But age brings a rigidity to thought sometimes—a narrow-mindedness
when it should broaden over time. We think we know best, when in fact, we don’t. We get set in our ways thinking they’re the best ways—the tried and tested ways—but they’re not. They’re just easier and tired and relate to a different time that’s no longer relevant. With age comes experience, but we only gain from it ultimately if we learn from it. You love Daniel. I know you do. These are just last-minute nerves.’

‘I’ve got another four weeks. I can always say no on the day, or not turn up.’

‘Whatever you do, don’t tell us. Coz he will grill us afterwards about knowing or not knowing and why didn’t we tell and stuff.’

‘I’ll leave you all in suspense as to if I’ll turn up on the day. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

For some reason, I’m quite excited about the prospect of Fran making the wedding day a possible, not a definite. It will happen of course. But could it go on without the bride? I’ve been to some weddings where the bride seemed almost superfluous. She was there in body, but not in spirit, said nothing, just shook hands and laughed at the groom’s, best man’s and her father-in-law’s jokes. Oh, get real, Hazel, I’m talking about my experience of wedding day. Fran’s will be different. She will be the focal point. She will be the reason we are all there. For her sake.

‘So what does everyone think of my action list and has anyone done one of their own?’

Everyone shakes their heads.

‘I’ve done all I want to do,’ explains Doreen. ‘I don’t want to travel anywhere I haven’t been to. Or get higher in my career.’

The tannoy on the train announces we’re going through the tunnel. I get the champagne out and pour for each of us.

Valerie sighs. ‘I just want to let my fortieth come and go without me making a song and dance about it. I don’t want anything special.’

‘The date and day are like any other,’ I say. ‘But I think its best to think about it before it happens rather than deal with the aftermath, which is what I think a lot of people—not just women—men, too—do as well. All those men who have played the field, may have reached the peak of the corporate ladder and think, hey, I don’t have a wife. Lots of other trophies and no wife and no heir and spare and I gotta get them quick. I see that a lot these days. They collect families like they collect everything else. Did you know, the latest trend amongst the city slickers is having three families in one lifetime?’

‘Bit greedy, isn’t it?’ Fran comments.

‘I suppose you could argue it’s as nature intended. Males roam from family to family. That’s what they do in the wild. They spread their seed.’

Fran interrupts. ‘Perhaps Henry VIII got it right. Ask yourself, who out of all his missus got the best deal? Was it Number One or Number Six? The one who got the young man, emotionally immature, full of hope and en
ergy, enthusiasm and pride or the one who got the old, tired, having learnt nothing from any of the experience of course, holding onto the anger and resentment and power to behead?’

Doreen smiles. ‘Surely the wives who didn’t get beheaded, who survived the experience, got the best deal.’

‘Well, yes, if you think of marriage as an experience to survive as opposed to one to thrive on. But my point is I think each wife essentially has the same man. Different body, slightly more wrinkled package, but same man who followed the same pattern. The older man is harder work, with more baggage, yet still with the mind of a selfish boy. That’s why I think it’s best to get the man young, because you get the man at twenty and they’ll be that way at forty and at sixty, only they won’t move as fast.’

‘I suppose men could say that about women,’ adds Valerie.

‘They often do. Difference is, women learn from their experiences and they enjoy maturing emotionally. That’s why there aren’t as many female Peter Pans, as there are male. In my experience, most men don’t learn about life while they’re living it, whereas most women do.’

We all then discuss the things we’ve done in our lives of which we’re most proud. With the exception of Valerie, who’s expecting her first, and Fran, who’s yet to marry, we all say having children. Even Doreen, who I thought would say career, says having her brood comes way ahead of getting CEO.

‘I know you all thought I would say career, but it
doesn’t compare with having kids. I like being a mum. I enjoyed being a mum a lot more than I do being a wife and I think hand on heart you ask most women and they’ll say the same thing. I think those who don’t have children in the end treat their husbands like kids or get cats or dogs and treat them like kids, but they must have this maternal relationship with something or someone even if it ends up being the house plant or the postman.’

The girls sit and stare at Doreen as though she’s said something deeply profound. I think she’s simply voiced what all of us think. Doreen’s career gives her drive and energy, her husband support, but it’s her kids that inspire her. Not her husband. Not her marriage.

Thanks to my bullying everyone has taken hand luggage only. Here for two days, one night in the Disneyland Hotel, we all feel slightly heady but happy. A very premenstrual Daisy Duck greets us at reception and asks us in strangled English if we have our passports. Doreen takes the lead.

‘Girls. All passports please.’

We hand all passports to head girl.

We’re sharing rooms. And I’m the odd one out for some reason. Doreen says it’s because I smell. We’ve done lunch on the train, so we head for Fantasyland.

Doreen snarls, ‘I don’t want to do that fucking Small World ride. Elephants fine. Either I queue for them with Valerie or go on the Indiana Jones thing, but I’m not doing that ride.’

Valerie wants to do the haunted house. I tell her she
can do what she likes. I want to do the Peter Pan ride and Space Mountain, while Carron wants to see if they have a Johnny Depp puppet at the
Pirates of the Caribbean.
I say I doubt it.

Two hours and four rides later, we’ve done Fantasyland and Discoveryland. And some of Wild West Land. Well, we think it’s Wild West land but they call it something else in the brochure. Valerie gets stuck in the elephant and is helped out by three burly French Chipmunks that she liked. Fran falls in the water at the
Pirates of the Caribbean
trying to collect a souvenir from one of the pirates, who looks a teensy bit like J Depp. And fails. Doreen threw something at one of the dolls in Small World ride and is banned from going on the boats again. A feat of which she is extremely proud. She quotes something from a Monty Python film about the French official’s mother drinking elderflower wine. Or something. Anyway, she says it in French so it sounds even funnier. Think we’re all still pissed.