by Sarah Tucker
‘You will. You will also know how to behave in such circumstances and to keep your heart open because it’s a big heart, Hazel, and it would be a shame to go through life and not experience love again. Do you remember that feeling?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Wasn’t it wonderful?’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘Then hold that thought and fight for it, because it’s worth fighting for.’
I see so much fighting between couples who have loved each other. More than that, sworn love to each other till the day they die, and they fight all right. They fight each other tooth and nail for the money, the children, the livelihood, the revenge. I know life is supposed to be ups and downs, but for fuck’s sake, why do I get a job where it always seems to end horribly ever after?
Chapter Twenty-Three
New York State of Mind
Brian Stapleton has convinced me that Joe and I ought to have a two-day trip to New York. It is work of course and although no one suspects in the office about Joe and me, I’m sure ‘the office knows.’ As in, the office knew when Jennifer was pregnant, and the office knew when Brian was having an affair with one of our ex-clients. Rumours seem to spread in the air despite the fact we’re all usually very discreet. I’ve had a call from Jennifer, my right-and-left-arm former PA, who’s had a little boy called Horatio Dunstable, which is an atrocious name for such a cute little boy.
‘It’s an atrocious name, Jenny. Why did you call him that?’
‘It’s a family thing, Hazel. I don’t want to talk about it. He’s probably going to be called Horror or Dunce at school if we’re not careful. But hey ho, see what happens. How’s the new PA working out? How’s it working out with Joe Ryan?’
‘Marion is fine. Efficient. Not you. Joe is efficient and gets on well with clients.’
‘I hear you’re seeing him.’
This throws me. Jennifer’s good at guessing me, but all I’ve said is Joe is efficient and good with clients. Is the gossip wind reaching that far these days? How can she guess from those few words?
‘How did you hear that?’
‘Oh, Brian told me. He says that you’re getting on well. That he recognised an immediate spark, but that you’ve both been discreet and it’s rather sweet really, you being so coy about it.’
‘So much for our discretion.’
‘Whatever. I think he’s cool with it.’
‘Well, he’s so cool with it, we’re both going to New York for two days. This afternoon, actually.’
‘So you’re going out with him?’
‘No, well, no. We’ve had lunches, tea, coffee, drinks. Hugged, we’ve kissed.’
‘It does sound sweet. Sounds as though you like this one.’
‘D’you know, Jennifer, I think it is. And I think I do.’
Five o’clock. Same afternoon. Heathrow airport with hand luggage. Possibly one of my favourite places in the world. Edgy, noisy, and if there isn’t an air traffic controllers’ strike, everyone is full of anticipation, excited in the knowledge it’s going to be a long journey. I always think the attitude people have at airports is how people should treat life in general—as some sort of fun journey. They’re usually excited about this particular adventure. But most people treat life’s journey like a daily commute. They survive it rather than get excited about it. And they take far too much baggage around with them, the physical as well as the emotional stuff. Travel light, I say, and you get further and can go faster. In life and when travelling.
Despite wanting to pack half my wardrobe for this particular trip, I’ve managed to pack light. It’s taken years of practice, but I’ve perfected the art form. I have hand luggage for two days. Outfit I’m wearing, three pairs of barely there La Perla knickers, two semitransparent blouses, two skirts, one dress, one cocktail dress, small makeup bag. Dermalogica cleanser, toner and moisturiser (the best, in my opinion)—travel size. Would like to take tweezers but I’ve had five confiscated at airports as potentially dangerous weapons. Brush, travel shampoo and conditioner. That’s it. All in hand luggage.
‘Is that all you’ve got? ‘Joe asks.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Little black dress. Lingerie. Stockings. Extra-strength condoms.’
He smiles.
‘No, really. We’re out here for a couple of days and I’ve never seen a woman travel that light.’
‘Well, I do.’
I survey Joe’s suitcase. It looks as though he’s packed for a two-week ski trip to Whistler rather than a two day business trip to New York.
‘Why so much?’
‘Oh, I’ve left lots of space for buying up Timberland stuff. It’s so much cheaper out there.’
‘Good idea. Why don’t you just buy a suitcase out there, too? One of those soft suede ones? They’re cheaper there and you can take hand luggage on the way out.’
‘Didn’t think of that.’
‘Well, you’ll know for the future.’
‘We’re flying business class,’ he points out.
‘The Executive Lounge is nearly empty so we have the choice of seats.’
‘Where do you want to go?’
‘Oh, anywhere. Not by the toilets, and not too close to the bar and drinks machines. Over there in the corner. That’s good.’
I get two diet colas and Joe gets himself a beer and a muffin. He sits beside me. I’m vaguely aware he’s staring at me.
‘Do you know how difficult this is?’ he says.
‘How difficult what is?’
‘Sitting next to you like this.’
‘Well, don’t then. Sit somewhere else.’
‘It’s going to be difficult to keep my hands off you during this trip. To be professional.’
‘You want to know how you can?’
‘How?’
‘Think of Fiona sobbing.’
There’s plenty of space on the flight, but we’re seated next to each other.
‘Do you want to discuss our itinerary while we’re out there?’ Joe asks.
‘Yes, fine. I know we hit the ground running. Literally.’
‘Yes.’
We pull out our papers and tray tables. The attendant comes round and asks if we want champagne and would we like to order. I survey the menu and order coq au vin and smoked salmon starter. Joe orders lamb with crab starter, with red wine. The attendant hands me a sticker which says DO NOT DISTURB UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. Must remember to take this home for my office door. Brian has a habit of just walking in without knocking. As I survey the papers I feel a furtive hand reaching over my thigh and lifting up my skirt.
I like the idea of Joe being so close and yet not being able to do anything. I don’t want to join the Mile High Club, but the idea of him sitting next to me, there’s very little space between bodies even on business class, for five hours on end is a luxury I haven’t enjoyed since I started ‘seeing him.’
‘How are things with Fiona?’
‘It’s been difficult. I think she was in denial for a long time, even when we were still living together in the house—and maybe still is. She’s angry now, too. She says she loves me. And I love her. But not how, not in the way, she wants me to. And I have moved on emotionally, Hazel. I realise I’ve lost my best friend but there’s more to a relationship than being just a best friend.’
‘That’s what a lot of relationships are.’
‘When you’re in your sixties or seventies or eighties perhaps, Hazel. Not when you are in your twenties, thirties, forties and even fifties. Anyway, she wants to meet up, but it’s not a good idea. I’ve told her this. And she knows I more than like you. And that you’re now my girlfriend. So seeing her prolongs the pain.’
I listen to Joe tell me the story. It makes me go cold because I’m reliving the moment when David told me about the other woman, and the words are the same, the phrases are the same, the excuses are the same, only this time I’m not the woman at the bottom of the stairs, I’m the other woman, but I’m one who’s got more compassion
on her side. More understanding of how Fiona feels and that will help, if I ever meet her again, which, hopefully I won’t. If she turns up at my door again or threatens to kill the tortoises, well, I’ll cross that bridge, but I’m not wasting sleep over it. I haven’t and didn’t have sex with him while he was going out or living with her and haven’t to date. Well, unless you count text sex, which okay, I suppose is sex.
And anyway, I’m his girlfriend. He told me so himself.
So for the rest of the flight, we sit and hold hands and occasionally rub noses and stroke thighs and nothing more. And it’s frustrating but just right.
At JFK our chauffeur is holding up a huge placard with RIANNON AND CHAMBERLAINS. Not that difficult a name, but I’m used to it. Even worse when I used my married name. I use to get GROVEL or COWARD or best of all BOWEL when I was married to David. Chamberlains and Riannon are driven by an aspiring actor who tells us his life story for the first twenty minutes before he learns that we’re divorce lawyers and then sulks for the next twenty when I say his wife will get everything if she finds out about his affair.
We’re both staying at the Ritz Carlton overlooking Central Park. I am told J Lo stayed here with Ben and he bought her thousands of white roses and sprinkled the petals all over the room. I’m singularly unimpressed as I know how tiresome it is to tidy up after flowers and the petals rot and the bloody things get everywhere. I like my room, though. I’m in room 1908. Fabulous view of the park. Joe’s on the floor below.
‘I’m obviously not as important as you, Hazel.’
‘Don’t think it’s got anything to do with it. Do you want this room?’
‘No, but perhaps I’ll be sleeping in there more than I will my room while I’m here.’
‘You know why we’ve got these rooms, don’t you, why we’re staying here?’
‘No.’
‘Brian knows the manager, a former client, who’s married well second-time round. Rumour has it that he’s also slept with him. But it’s only rumour.’
I’m in the bedroom, a bedroom alone with Joe for the first time. Even Housekeeping have turned on the radio by the bed and Billy Joel’s ‘New York State of Mind’ is playing, somewhat appropriately. I suppose it could be worse—it could be Sinatra’s ‘New York, New York.’ I hate Billy Joel’s songs normally but today, today I like everything. As I look at my younger man, I know I want to make love to Joe now. In this room, at this moment. I walk up to him and carefully lift his shirt out of his trousers and undo his belt without taking my eyes from his. I think I must have undone every sort of belt known to mankind. Those with buckles, those with poppers, those with Velcro (the men were usually horrible), those with braces (usually city and fat types), and consider myself an expert in much the same way I’m sure men do with bra straps. I don’t need to look at what I’m doing—I just feel the way. I slowly undo his trousers. He says nothing, just watches me. I kneel and take him in my mouth. He does nothing for a few minutes, then asks me quietly to stop and lifts me up.
He swings me round and kisses me, very sensually. I feel as though a switch has just gone on inside me, ironically since I also feel as though the lights have just gone out and can only manage now with his help. I realise Joe is pushing me toward the bed, managing to undo my skirt and blouse in a few moves. This makes me think he could have done that a long time ago and was teasing himself by waiting till now as much as he was me. He slowly strips me naked, kisses my neck, between my breasts, moving down my body slowly, slowly to my thighs, remarking on my arrow.
He smiles. ‘I haven’t seen one like that before. Very exciting.’ Thank you, Angie, you were right.
He then reaches up again and lifting himself onto me, pushes himself inside me. He reaches deep into me, exploring me, but he’s also exploring me with his fingers, exploring me with his lips, nipping me gently like a cat, stroking me. And I should be uncomfortable and overwhelmed and I’m not. He’s allowing me to get to him. To turn him on and things that seem unnatural with other men seem natural with him. Everything is natural and easy and sexy with him. This isn’t sex. This is making love. It’s the Jane Austen where people got to know each other before they made love, not the Pretty Woman contemporary version where people have sex, then get to know each other—if they’re lucky. Okay, perhaps not Jane Austen, she would have waited till they got married. And perhaps I should have waited longer. But this is lovely. I can sense he wants to reach deep into me. As deep as he can go. That somehow he wants to get under my skin physically, like a ghost passing through my body and staying there. Possessing me without possessing me.
He stops and looks down at me, stroking my face occasionally and smiling. Saying nothing and smiling. Just kissing me occasionally. After a while, I don’t know how long, he says, ‘Let’s go and see the view.’
Which surprises and confuses me.
We’re both naked. He takes me over to the window-sill, pushing me up against the glass.
‘Do you think anyone can see you?’ he whispers in my ear.
We must be on the 200th floor of this building. I don’t think we’ll be overlooked. There’s one building that’s close by. It’s higher than ours, but it’s not an office building. I can’t see anyone there. No binoculars.
He pushes me up against the picture window. Wow, I hope there aren’t any birdwatchers in Central Park today. They do tend to have binoculars looking out for the birds. They’d get an eyeful if they fell on this building. But I’m not letting Joe have it all his own way. Let’s share the control, shall we? I turn on him and push him up against the glass. Saw this when Ellen Burkin did it to Al Pacino in Sea of Love where he thought she was the killer but still slept with her anyway because she was so incredibly sexy, and she wasn’t the killer—it was her jealous lover, so bit of a bummer for him. Anyway, Ellen did this to Al and turned him on and, well, seems to be doing the same for Joe.
‘The curtains are opening,’ Joe says with a start.
‘They can’t see anything from this distance surely.’
‘Can’t tell. Could be the maid.’
‘Great. I’m pressed up against the glass and there’s possibly someone looking at me sprawled in delecto against a window.’
‘Can’t make out who it is.’
‘Does it matter?’
Joe sighs as I’m moving my hands in between his thighs and pushing my body hard against his. I ask him if he’s enjoying it. He says yes and tells me he thinks the couple in the other building have binoculars. I say the idea of voyeurs turns me on. That they can’t touch us, but they can watch us. But that I don’t need an audience to get turned on by him. And with that he draws our curtains and leads me back to the bed.
‘We should do some work today.’ I say this but don’t mean it.
‘I know. But we’ve gained seven hours flying here. Brian always tells us to optimise our time. So let’s make good use of a few of them, shall we, Ms Chamberlayne. Then we can get down to briefs.’ And he kisses me again and the lights go off.
The work in New York goes without a hitch. The days are spent with our client and the bankers investigating funds that should have been declared and haven’t been. Our client can now ask for the matrimonial home because there’s enough money to go round, and that’s good. It’s been successful workwise. The nights are spent in Joe’s arms, naked, where time has no meaning and every song about love played on the radio in our room does. You know, the ones that make you normally cringe and want to throw up and think, who the hell would relate to this? And when you’ve just met someone, or lost someone, you do relate. You so do. And it’s been wonderful and just a little unreal. And, I hate myself for saying this, but I think Billy Joel’s songs are the best.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Bad News
Back in the London office, humming a happy lyric to myself, Joe comes up to me.
‘Got some news. Not good. Can you come into the meeting room?’
‘Of course.’
I follow him in, t
hinking, I know, we’ve just slept together and he’s decided now he’s getting back with Fiona. That’s it.
Door closes.
‘Mr Benson just called me. His wife has tried to commit suicide.’
I’m shocked. I’m so shocked I burst into tears. I’m shocked because I’ve burst into tears. I don’t burst into tears. It’s not that I’m hard but stuff like this happens sometimes with clients. It just gets too much for them. All this hate and stress. But it doesn’t get too much for me. This is my job and I don’t burst into tears in the office. Ever. Joe looks surprised, but hugs me.
‘Hazel, what’s this now? This has happened before with clients. Occasionally. One goes off the rails, loses hope, doesn’t get enough professional support, or emotional support from family and friends. This happens. Why this woman?’
‘Oh, I’ve had one hell of a roller-coaster three months, haven’t I? I’ve lost one of my dearest friends to cancer, one of my other friends is now not getting married, something she’s wanted all her life and is having someone else’s baby. I’m losing my daughter and best friend to college. And I’ve met you, and any moment now or tomorrow or the day after tomorrow, you’ll be poised to turn round and say “Hey, I’ve made a mistake. I’ve decided to go back with Fiona.” After all, that’s what I was hoping with David all those years ago, that he would just turn up at my door and say he’d been wrong. And I know you’re different from David and Dominic and even Benson. I think you are different. I think you do learn through experience—your own and other peoples’. And I’ve just started to believe in the idea of happy ever after, even after separation. I know it sounds so naff, but I’ve started to open my heart to the idea of love, to tentatively being in love again and someone’s just gone in and stamped all over it.
‘Things like this happen. You can’t judge all relationships by this one.’
I brush my tears away with tissue from the box usually designated for sobbing clients. I feel a bit stupid. I feel very vulnerable.