by Sarah Tucker
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-the-art 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, b
efore 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.
MESSAGE RECEIVED
Sorry I couldn’t meet tonight. Hope you had a good evening. Case went on too long. If you fancy a chat or drink later on call me. Joe.
I stare at the message. Friendly and to the point, text lacks intonation. I’m often having an argument with Fran about texting and e-mail for this very reason. Just because people can communicate doesn’t mean they can communicate. And I don’t know if he expects me to call him now later on, or later on this weekend, or if the suggestion to call him was meant or just a cursory suggestion, not meant to be taken seriously. But I’m feeling aroused because I’ve just been on the verge of coming and I’m reading the message and it’s from Joe and the two events aren’t mutually exclusive. So I call.
‘Hello, Joe. It’s Hazel.’
‘Hello, Hazel. Sorry about this evening. The case went on longer than expected and you know Jonesy (Jonesy is Harvey Reginald Joines, cantankerous judge who should have been dead a long time ago), well, we were stuck there because of him, but you don’t want to know this. Are you still game for a drink?’
‘No. I’m a bit tired now. Have, er (thinking of what I’ve been doing), been chilling out.’
‘No worries, just a thought. I’m staying in tonight as well.’
Silence. Perhaps he expects me to say something, or suggest he comes round, or that we go out. But I don’t want to go out now. I’m happy by myself, and was very happy by myself until he rang. So although I still think Joe Ryan is intriguing, I want my Friday night to myself, with the pleasure of my own company. So I don’t fill the silence with idle chat or suggestion. I let it lie.
‘Well, perhaps next week one day after work.’
He sounds dejected but I don’t care. I’m half aroused and have had too much to drink and if he comes round now, may do something I will regret not just in the morning but the rest of my working career. I’m sure he doesn’t fancy me and it’s just my imagination so I might make a fool of myself. And I don’t want to. So I’m practicing the safest sort of sex. Joe Ryan will just have to stay in by himself and mope or do whatever he’s doing.
‘I don’t know. I’ll see.’
He says ‘bye’ and puts the phone down before I can respond. Obviously, he’s pissed off that I would rather stay in by myself or else he thinks I have a man here. Actually, I prefer him to think the latter, perhaps he’ll consider this a challenge.
Now, right, where was I. Oh yes, on the sofa.
BROOOOMMMMMMM. I must remember to turn that fucking mobile off. Who is this from?
MESSAGE RECEIVED
Sorry I disturbed you. Joe.
He’s disturbing me again by apologising for disturbing me. This is silly. I ignore the message, turn off my phone and slowly, very slowly, make myself climax. Disconcerting thing is, I’m thinking about Joe at the time.
Chapter Seven
The Non-Kiss
Pied Paella is a little eatery just off Chancery Lane. It’s five minutes from our office and serves aphrodisiac Spanish cooking (that’s what it says on the menu) served by funky short-skirted, brown-eyed Spanish waitresses who wear black fishnets, black bras under see-through tight white blouses (two buttons done up only) and bloodred lipstick pouts. Lights are dimmed, smelly sweaty hams hang from the ceiling, air smells heavy with garlic, herbs, Rioja and lust. Joe suggests he and I meet there for a quick bite after work on Tuesday. He detects there’s been a tension between us.
‘There’s been a tension between us, and I feel you would have preferred Brian hadn’t hired me. I feel as though you feel I’ve stepped on your toes and this wasn’t my intention, Hazel. Is this the case?’
That’s how he put it immediately after the Monday morning meeting. Then he suggested we meet informally to get things out in the open. He talks to me as though we’re opposing counsels in court.
Unfazed by his directness, I lie. ‘No, it’s just that this is a very small team, close-knit and when a new face comes in, it always takes time to adjust.’
I think it mildly inappropriate to come here, but they serve food quickly and it’s not a romantic spot, which may have given off the wrong vibes about the meeting.
I feel a bit furtive leaving the office at six and not telling anyone I’m meeting Joe. Mind you, he’s not telling anyone either, so perhaps he feels as furtive as I do, which is ridiculous, because we have nothing to feel furtive about. I don’t think we actually like each other. Okay, he’s physically attractive, I give him that, but he’s right about the tension. I don’t like having him in the office. He irritates me because he distracts me. So, yes, there is a tension.
We meet outside and walk down to the darkened entrance of the restaurant, greeted by waitresses and hams. We’re led to a table in the middle of the room, so we obviously don’t look as though we’re about to canoodle (probably a good thing), and are sat down, given menus and told to order promptly as there’s a large hen party due to arrive in an hour’s time.
I order smoked salmon, wanting something light but with a decent amount of calories and fat so I don’t pass away completely. He orders chicken in white wine, so obviously hungry or wants to make a meal out of the evening, which I don’t.
He starts. ‘So how can we improve things between us? Is there anything you or I can do differently in the office?’
‘Well, I don’t feel there is a problem. Or one that won’t be resolved over time. There’s always a learning curve at the beginning of things like this. I didn’t see why Brian needed to hire another pair of hands, but we’ve discussed this and I’m fine with it. The fact I wasn’t here when you were first interviewed miffed me a bit, but that’s not your fault, that’s between Brian and myself.’
‘It’s just that I feel you find me, well, irritating.’
‘Sometimes I do. Think we may be from different backgrounds.’
‘So tell me about yourself?’
I’m surprised he’s asking me so directly. I start to go through my CV—school, university, marriage, law—and suggest he speak to Brian and some of my former employers. He smiles and says he wants to know about me. Not the professional me, the personal me, if that’s not too personal.
‘I want to know about you. If that’s not too personal.’
He’s wanting me to tell him personal things, almost as though we’re on our first date. But we’re not. We’re work colleagues talking about work and life and how we can get on better in the office not out of it. I tell him about where I live. About Sarah and her aspirations to be prime minister or at least Wimbledon Tennis Champion in three years’ time. I tell him about my little house of which I’m very proud, and where I was born, where I was educated, what my aspirations were and are. I tell him about David, and the marriage and divorce and how I draw on my own experience a lot when I need to feel compassion for the clients I find most odious. And how I have plans to buy a place in Italy, in La Marquee one day, and eat caprese and drink Chianti all day and have lots more babies. Only I’m forty this year, don’t have a boyfriend so am pushing it a bit.
Through all this, he listens. Occasionally he nods, occasionally he laughs, and occasionally he says something that is jus
t right, which shows he’s listening and not staring into me blankly as he does sometimes in the office. After half an hour of Hazel Chamberlayne, Life and Times, I ask him about himself.
He tells me he is the middle of three children, born in India, having spent the first eight years of his life travelling the world with his parents—and loving every moment being with them and experiencing the world. At nine he was sent to boarding school in Scotland (hated it), then Oxford, and then into Law. His parents are both alive and living on Richmond Hill.
I want to ask him if he has a girlfriend but think it’s too forward. Mind you, if I don’t ask, he may think this suspicious, so perhaps I should just come out with it.
Drinks and food arrive. One hour later, we’re on our second bottle of Chardonnay, and we shouldn’t be because we have a case in the morning, and I need to be focused and it’s only Tuesday and I’m already a little light-headed and finding the evening a bit weird because I still find Joe both annoying and exciting, and am annoyed that I find him exciting.
Another bottle of Chardonnay, feeling dazed now and ready for a party myself, the Hen Party arrives. He asks if I want to go somewhere else. No, this could be quite interesting, I say. About ten smiling shiny girls sashay into the room. They all look early twenties, twittering like birds as though they’ve been to a few wine bars before arriving here. The bride-to-be looks slightly dishevelled, dripping with (I presume) unused condoms and a large top hat with GETTING MARRIED on the front. She seems the least happy out of the group of girls, perhaps a bit overcome by the indignity of it all, or perhaps she’s not sure she’s doing the right thing. Or perhaps a bit of both.
Joe asks again if I want to leave to be somewhere quieter. I say fine, and that I’ve really got to go anyway and he smiles, pays the bill without me realising it and ushers me out the door. I’m tipsy, having eaten hardly anything and drunk probably two-thirds of a bottle of wine—rather good wine—but I don’t drink a lot so it’s gone to my head. And I don’t find Joe Ryan quite so annoying any more. Or perhaps I’m just drunk. Anyway, this is all in a good cause. Hopefully it will ease the tension in our working relationship. He probably thinks I’m a cold fish and this will make him think that, hey, she can let her hair down after all.