Supersonic

by Anouschka Zagorski

  “That’s so dishonourable!”

  “Maybe he is now showing his true character. On the other hand, he was very angry and depressed after our separation - he kept blaming me for, as he put it, ‘throwing him away’.”

  “Obviously his ego could not take that.”

  “Maybe. He quite liked to be the centre of attention. It was like he would compete with me for the sake of it. At his cousin’s wedding for example, I wore this gorgeous red Valentino dress in the evening and even I was quite pleased with myself - but I was virtually ignored by everybody because he had this new coat-length dinner jacket and people would compliment him on his outfit.”

  “He would always tell people how gorgeous you were though.”

  “Yes, he did - in my presence. But when we were alone, he would tell me that I was such a control freak and so tense about tidiness and money. He would say in the nicest way ‘Chloé, you are a wonderful woman but you are not normal, you need a psychologe’. It was like brainwashing me. I believed him, until I went to see a psychologist who told me there was nothing ‘wrong’ with me as such and that I was like any grown-up who has normal neuroses.” I sighed. “I think I really did try to make it work, Patricia, but we were just not on the same level of communication. It wasn’t a language thing. Perhaps I just didn’t bring out the best in him. He didn’t bring out the best in me. So, really, it was better to make a painful break than to draw out the agony.”

  “I think you’ve done the right thing. How did Hugo react to you being divorced now? I thought he might propose to you on the same day!”

  “No! Good god, no!” I exclaimed without thinking.

  “That’s a fierce reaction! Were you not expecting it - or even hoping for it?”

  “Not really - the last thing I want is to get married again! Or have a child. I have fought so long for my liberty. I just want to be free. Have my own house. With my girls.”

  Were we not already enough as a family? Marie’s favourite song currently was We are Family. I knew she considered her mother, her sister and herself as being that family.

  “Wow, you want to buy a house? That’s fantastic!”

  “Yes, I am looking around. I don’t want to live in Hugo’s place, if we were to separate...”

  “Who said anything about separating?” Patricia stared at me in surprise.

  I backtracked. “No, no. I’m not saying we will separate. But, if I’m honest, things haven’t been great, as you know. If I’m going to tell Hugo that I don’t want to get married again or have more children, well he should be free to find a woman who does.”

  “That sounds very cold and rational. If he really loves you, that won’t matter.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Come on, Patricia, be realistic. Anyway, there’s no use talking about it. Let’s eat up - I want to have a quick look at some winter coats before I go back to the fun factory!”

  Patricia giggled. “The fun factory - I am soo glad I don’t have to go and work at Howard Hewitt anymore! Urgh, can you imagine?”

  I contemplated Patricia in her Hermès-laden outfit. “No way.”

  “Exactly. Oh, and can we go to Cartier, too? Michael said he might allow me to buy a ballon bleu watch as my Christmas present from him.”

  “Really? Wow, that’s generous of him! Of course we can!” I waved at the waitress to get the bill.

  * * *

  Cartier was just around the corner. While Patricia was shown different versions of the ballon bleu I browsed the rings on display. I couldn’t really wear the Trinity ring, that had the names of Jean, Noëlle and Marie engraved on it, any longer. That is when I saw it. Brushed white gold, about one centimetre in width, with the Cartier double C in the middle which was encrusted with diamonds. Ohhhh. I was in love. With a ring. But I could hardly buy that for myself. Theoretically I had the means to buy it, but such a special ring should be given to a woman by a man - for a special occasion or simply because he adores her (and can afford to buy it). A sales assistant appeared by my side. She must have sensed my interest.

  “May I show you any particular piece?” she asked gently. She had obviously noticed my steel Roadster watch on my left wrist and accepted me as a Cartier client.

  I looked at her regretfully. “No, thank you very much. I was just admiring this lovely ring while waiting for my friend.” I pointed at the ring and then at Patricia.

  The sales assistant leaned over the showcase. “Do you mean the one in the middle? That is the last one in the old design - next year there will be a newly designed C-motive ring.” She unlocked the case and took it out, placing it carefully on a red velvet tray.

  “Oh really? That is a pity - it is a gorgeous ring. May I ask its price?”

  “In this size about two thousand - I would have to check for the exact price.”

  Two thousand? I would have thought it more expensive. “That’s fine - don’t trouble yourself,” I declined politely.

  “What’s going on?” Patricia appeared. She looked at the ring. “Oooh, very nice.”

  I sighed. “Yes, it is beautiful.” I smiled again at the assistant with regret. “Thank you.”

  “You are very welcome.”

  “Did you find your watch?” I asked Patricia.

  “I am not sure which one I want - the yellow or white gold one. I’ll come back, with Michael perhaps - if he ever has time.”

  “Right, let’s go then - I have to go back to the office.”

  As we left the shop I thought of what the hotel manager insinuatingly says to Richard Gere’s character in Pretty Woman, when the latter returns the diamond necklace worn by Julia Roberts’ character to the opera: ‘It must be difficult to let go of something so beautiful’. It was indeed difficult. But maybe this ring - and what it represented for me - would one day come to me after all.

  I walked back to the P&W building, crossed the entrance lobby and just managed to squeeze into a lift as the doors were closing.

  “Hold it!” a male voice shouted as the doors were nearly closed. I quickly pressed the hold button.

  “Thank you - oh, my learned colleague!” Michael Stone entered.

  “Hello! What a coincidence - I just had lunch with your wife!”

  Michael made a sarcastic expression. “Well, that must have been a very important meeting.”

  I raised my right eyebrow. “It was, actually.”

  “Oh yes, of course - did you not have your divorce hearing?” he asked.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Well then - congratulations.” His voice was now dripping with sarcasm.

  “Hm.” What was I to say to that.

  He noticed my displeasure. “Now, it’s not really great, is it Chloé? A single mother with a full-time job in our world - I don’t know how you think you’ll manage in the long run.”

  “Excuse me? A divorce does not make any difference!” I did not know whether to take him seriously.

  Ping. The lift stopped. We had arrived on our floor. Michael charged ahead and held the door, leading to our offices, open for me. “Well then, have fun. Bye.”

  He paced into the direction of his office while I slowly, and in a bit of a dither, turned the other way towards mine. Did he really mean that? Back in my office I sat down on my chair without taking off my coat, staring at the black computer screen. I activated it and clicked on my time entries. I already had over two hundred billable hours for this month, and it had yet to end. What did he mean I would not manage? Had I not sufficiently proved it? Just you wait. If I achieved two hundred and fifty hours this month he would no longer doubt me. Obviously only the financial figures mattered to the Partners. I knew this only too well. Only the figures counted; everything else was negligible. After all I was in one of the most conservative professions. Lawyers don’t like not being able to pigeonhole a co
lleague. To them, the best lifestyle would still be that in which they preferred to see themselves as having: an (outwardly) stable family life where the husband works hard, pays the bills and drives a big car whilst the neat, but not too attractive, good wife looks after their home, their two to three children and their dog. Naturally the ‘good wife’ doesn’t work at all or at most has an non-strenuous part-time job. All lawyers living outside that box - unmarried women of child-bearing age, single mothers, homosexuals, foreigners and handicapped - would be regarded with distrust and have to work even harder in order to prove themselves.

  I shook my head imperceptibly. No, I would not accept this. There was still a lot of work to be done, in every sense.

  9. It’s My Party and I Cry If I Want To

  Panic. That was my exact feeling when I thought of my approaching fortieth birthday.

  Panic - for many reasons. Forty was - if the universe treats me well - the middle point in my life. My wish was, on the one hand, to look back with content at the things I had achieved in the first half of my life whilst, on the other hand, looking forward with confidence to my prospects in the second half. How do I compare, to my own high standards? Let’s see.

  I had given birth to two wonderful children whom I had partly raised by myself, sometimes against all odds. I loved them above everything and everyone and was looking forward to watching them grow. So far, so good.

  In my career I had achieved everything that one can achieve - to be equity partner in a large international law firm. Although that lay in the past I still had a reasonably good reputation in the legal market, a job with prospects at a prestigious law firm and earned good money. Not too bad either.

  In the last twenty years I had been looking after my body, most of the time, and still looked good, even without resorting to the occasional botox treatment. I also liked the fact that whilst taking away my youth, the passing of time had added an attractive mature quality. Therefore I did not mourn the loss of youth or youthful appearance as such. I was quite proud of my physical condition and the work that I had put into it. I really did not want to be twenty anymore.

  But now here goes.

  When I thought of my relationships, I felt ill. I had always been a romantic and a firm believer in deep, real love and in the one person who really sees me. Who would look into my soul and read it and hold it in his hands like a precious liquid. Who would listen with me to Ella Fitzgerald’s April in Paris or Debussy’s Clair de Lune and understand the tears of melancholy in my eyes.

  Silly, little, Chloé.

  Of course, I had been convinced a couple of times that it happened - that I had met The One. Regrettably, and slowly, I had started to doubt whether it was possible at all. Men seemed to like my strong mind and physical attractiveness. Nobody ever bothered to look behind that. Really - nobody. Maybe once. One single time. The French student in my first year in London. Patrice. I was twenty-one, he was a year younger. We had spent hours discussing love and the universe, had written love poetry to each other, had (only) kissed. It had been incredibly romantic. I opened my soul to him. And then? At the end of the summer he came back from Paris and announced to me: I don’t love you anymore. Just like that. I didn’t understand, but I pretended to, then retreated and broke down inside. I suffered for weeks. I felt so alone, so unworthy of love. Out of deep despair, I even took a knife and pressed it into my wrist. Then I thought of my mother, and of her mother, and decided to break the chain. One day I knew I was over the worst. Then, slowly and carefully, I firmly shut that door to my soul, through which he had been allowed like nobody before.

  Of course, I was still able to fall in love again. But nobody after that was allowed through that door again. Not Jean, nor Hugo.

  The panic rose again when I reminded myself of my boyfriend. Hugo! Something inside of me was entirely resistant to the idea of a firm commitment with Hugo. I realised I had already made my decision. No further wedding, no more children! I didn’t mind at all that both fathers of my children lived far away and were not able to interfere with my precious time with the girls or the way I raised them. I had to get back into the state in which I felt most secure: independence. That was, potentially, the prospect for the second half of my life. Only I had not yet reconciled myself to this, at that point.

  A quiet knock on the door pulled me away from my thoughts. I was still in the office - it was late. The lamp on my desk gave off a warm light while the rest of my office was left in a gloomy semi-darkness. It was November and the deals that had to be closed by year-end were thriving. I had prepared the girls, as well as Hugo and Jana, for the reality that I would have to work rather late for those last two months.

  Frank entered my room and sat on one of the visitor’s chairs. “Hey, how’re you doing? Have you also been kept in detention?” It sounded like a question but in fact was a statement.

  “Hm,” I agreed smiling and blinked a few times. In view of my stream of thought just now, I was not really in the mood for a chat. On the other hand my melancholic mood had lowered my usual defences. He seemed to sense this, as he grabbed the opportunity.

  “Yes, uhm. I wanted to ask you something,” he began.

  I looked at him with suspense and encouragement. What now? Did he want to ask me for personal advice? I knew he was getting a divorce and nearly was through with it - only the spousal support claim was yet to be decided upon. I was happily prepared to listen to him and maybe make him feel a little better.

  “Yes, uhm...I don’t really get out much and want to meet more people ...and I thought about joining a salsa dance class.” He grinned, slightly embarrassed.

  “Well, that’s a nice idea. Good for you!”

  “Do you think so? Me too! The only thing is, uhm, I am looking for a dance partner because it’s kind of silly to go there by yourself.” He waited expectantly.

  I deliberated - whom could he ask? I couldn’t think at that moment of any suitable single women. I leaned back and let my mind wander while staring at the dark ceiling. “Hmmm, let me think if I know somebody.”

  “No, no - you don’t need to - I was going to ask you whether you would like to come with me - I mean to the dance class.”

  My gaze bounced back to him. “Me?” Huh?

  He held up his hands with a short embarrassed laugh. “Yeah, not like a date or something - I just thought you might want to come along.”

  Now I was confused. “Yes, uhm, of course, why not - when is this supposed to be?”

  He took a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it and examined what I could just make out as a timetable. “This says every Wednesday from eight to ten. Or Saturdays, same time.”

  “I can’t do Saturdays, because of my children, but... Wednesdays... yes, sure - if we get out of here in time.”

  I smiled without enthusiasm. If I went out with a partner, to socialise, one could hardly use that against me. Could I record this time somehow as non-billable hours like for internal meetings or know-how development? Probably not.

  Frank stood up. “So, great, I’ll send you a mail with all details and we can start next week.”

  “Super...” I tried to sound more enthusiastic now.

  Oh dear. I needed this like a hole in the head. I already had such little spare time. On the other hand, maybe it would do me good to do something apart from my job, children and household. I suppressed the feeling of guilt rising inside me by telling myself I would also be doing Frank a favour. Things were not easy for the poor guy either. Maybe he could even meet a hot salsa dancer.

  * * *

  We were both a little nervous. Outside of the safe sphere of the office we did not quite know how to behave towards each other. It was not a date but we weren’t friends either. When the minuscule Cuban teacher, called Paolo, whose lisped accent was barely comprehensible (“and-eehhh now-eeh togedaahhrrr, venga, venga!”) asked
everybody to take the dance position, I had to force myself to put my right arm around Frank’s waist and my left hand into his. It was no more pleasant to allow him to hold me.

  Dancing - in particular Latin American dancing - is very sensual and with the right partner even erotic. My memories of Lambada classes as a student in London mainly consisted of dancing all night with my tall and hot Brazilian dance partner. Whenever Felipe would gently sing Desafinado in Portuguese, I would feel like Jamie Lee Curtis’ character in A Fish Called Wanda, who was close to orgasm when John Cleese’s character would start speaking in Russian. Now, comparing Felipe’s sensuously swaying hips to the stiff movements of the pale, teutonic, Frank I sighed regretfully. At least he was tall and, albeit not athletic, he was quite burly. And he made an effort. He kept watching his feet intensely and counted with the teacher. “Uno, dos, tres! Uno, dos, tres!”

  That distracted me such that I stepped on his feet. “Oh sorry!” I laughed.

  He looked at me with relief and blew in his face. “Whew, this is so complicated!”

  “In particular if you can’t make out the instructions!” I giggled, pointing to the teacher who, counting loudly and clapping his hand with the rhythm, walked from couple to couple in order to correct their position.

  “Watch it, here he comes!” Frank hissed.

  Indeed it was our turn. We looked down at Paolo. As I was over six foot tall in my heels he just about reached my chest.

  “And-eeeh, herrre, nononono, closerrr togedarr, venga!” He pressed our upper bodies closer together with surprising force. “And-eeh now-eeh, uno, dos, tres!” He watched us with a wrinkled brow dancing a few steps, clicked his tongue disapprovingly and went back into the middle of the dance floor. He pointed at me. “No wiggelingeh weez dee heeps! Is-eeh no Lambada!” He exclaimed.

  Now Frank and I both laughed. The ice was broken. We relaxed.

  “OK, let’s try again, now weezout zee heeps!” I said.

  “And don’t lead again!” Frank retorted.