The Younger Man

We hug and smile and Angie tells me I have to come back in a month’s time to have the arrow sharpened.

‘You’ve got to keep it neat. You never know when you’re gonna get lucky.’

Chapter Two

My Best Friend’s Wedding

No tigers pounce on exiting Angie’s little room, which sort of surprises me given her reassurance I would be eaten alive. I feel strangely liberated. Almost schoolgirl excited about the thought of seeing Fran and telling her (not showing her, we’re not that close) about the arrow. Fran and I meet once a month at the Club, for herbal teas and sugar, gluten and fat-free flapjacks (they taste like solidified saccharined porridge, so sort of safe comfort food), and catch up on the latest gossip that’s accumulated over the past thirty or so days.

Francesca or Fran as I call her, interior designer, also thirty-nine, one of my best friends, soon to be married for the first time to Daniel, series director for long-running critically-acclaimed excellent-rated series Unreality TV on Trial, whom I’ve arranged to meet in the café with her newly curled eyelashes.

I walk past the emaciated Traceys, the toned coaches, the spindly wives and mistresses, past floor-to-ceiling mirrors, surveying everyone in their reflection—not wanting to look directly at any of them, for fear I’ll turn to stone. Or worse, become one of them. And I stop for a moment as I glimpse myself and think hey, I don’t look bad. Angie was right, despite all that I’ve gone through with the marriage, divorce, psychotic ex, childbirth, childlike boyfriends and broken hearts, I don’t look bad on it.

Fran, five-nine, curvy in all the right places, looks like Betty Boop. Her eyelashes have been overpermed. She’s a good friend so I say, ‘You look like Betty Boop.’

‘Thanks for your support.’

‘You should sue.’

‘It’ll calm down. Just that I have particularly long eyelashes so it’s taken well, according to Jane.’

‘Jane being the woman who’s done this to you.’

‘Yes. Anyway, how’s your Brazilian?’ she asks.

‘It’s quite sexy. She’s given me an arrow. Which points up.’

Fran laughs. ‘Sounds intriguing.’

‘Yes, I’m hoping men will be intrigued.’

‘You mean, turned on, excited, aching for you.’

‘Yep, that’s what I mean.’

Fran orders two peppermint teas and two bars of solidified porridge.

‘How are the wedding plans going?’ I ask, knowing full well everything is fine tuned.

Fran is getting married in a few months’ time. She is organised. I know Fran is organised because I am her maid of honour and I know every minutiae to the politics of coordinating the reception, honeymoon, flowers, food, guest list and wedding present list. I know there will be no hymns, as no one sings them anyway. I’ve met the Keith Richards lookalike saxophonist who will play ‘Blue Moon’ while the register is being signed. I’ve met (and already slept with the lead singer of) the hip band who do excellent cover versions and will be performing after the speeches at the reception in the Abbey in Chalfont St Mary, where Fran and Daniel have their five-bedroom cottage, recently extended with cinema and games room. I have sat through every dress fitting of the bride (there have been six). I know the politics of which family doesn’t like which family and therefore must not, under any circumstances, be sat next to one another for fear of distracting from the pleasure of the day. I know she doesn’t like Arun lilies. I know her mother does and that last week this led to seventy-two hours of silence between bride and mother of the bride. Fran won. I know what she wants left out of the groom’s and best man’s wedding speeches and what she wants in. Daniel knows, too. She wrote the speeches.

‘Are you happy with all the wedding preparations?’ I ask, knowing full well she is.

‘Yes, Hazel. Very happy. Think all my hard work is paying off and it will be a very happy day. Only thing we can’t guarantee is the weather and I’ve heard about this spiritual healer who is very good, and I’m going to see if I can get on her good side and ask if someone up there can do something about it. Never know, worth trying.’

Anyone else and they’d be joking. Fran is serious. I continue to drink my tea.

‘Do you like your dress?’ she asks.

‘It’s lovely, Fran. And I do appreciate you asking me to be your maid of honour, but, well, I still think, are you sure it isn’t a bad omen having a divorce lawyer, and a divorced one at that, as your maid of honour. I’m not exactly an advocate for happy relationships, am I? In fact, quite the reverse.’

‘Of course not, Hazel. You’re my best friend. And, well, I’ve thought about these things, as you know I do, as you know I always do. And it’s a good way to keep Daniel on his toes from the start, if you know what I mean. Anyway, how are you then? How’s work, still seeing Dominic?’

Dominic was a barrister to whom I used to give a lot of work. Tall, dark, angularly handsome, recently divorced with three children, he was into hunting, shooting and fishing and was extremely athletic and competitive in the bedroom as well as out of it. I burnt more calories having sex with Dominic for thirty minutes than I did spinning for sixty minutes at GoForIt. And it cost me less. He was also quite sweet. That was until I discovered Dominic was bedding the female clients I was asking him to represent in court. I was miffed. As his pimp, I felt at least he should have given me some sort of commission. Anyway, Dominic and I were no longer an item—a team, in or out of the court or bedroom.

‘No Fran, we’re no longer together. It was a physical thing anyway. He was very good-looking, handsome, and I enjoyed his company. Fun and funny.’

Fran looks at me as if she’s looking through me.

‘He was seeing the clients wasn’t he?’

I look at her and smile, but I’m a bit glassy eyed.

‘Yes.’

Fran stares at me for a bit, then says, ‘Hurt you, didn’t he?’

I am not going to cry. I am not going to cry. I am not going to cry. I am a hard woman. A strong woman. A tough woman. It was a physical thing anyway. I understand what men are like. What makes them tick. It was just physical. Okay, I thought his children were lovely. And he was lovely when he was with them. And he was lovely with Sarah, too. I loved having breakfasts and lunches and suppers with him. And he was interesting and well read and I liked his taste in music. And he made me laugh. And I’m thinking, visualising him now. And things like this happen. I am not going to cry.

‘Yes.’

A tear trickles down my face. God, so many tears in one morning. I must stop drinking so much water.

‘Liked him, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, but, well, he had baggage. I do, too.’

‘Perhaps. Depends how you package it, Hazel. How well you carry it. You carry yours well. Baggage only becomes a problem when you carry it around and offload it onto those around you. He sounded nice, but he had issues. You talked about him a lot, you know. Your relationship wasn’t just physical. It wasn’t to you anyway. What happened?’

I tell Fran about the clients. In a matter-of-fact way, without tears, embellishments or use of the B word.

She listens, sipping her tea, expressionless. She has a good poker face.

‘Well, everything happens for a reason. You’re worth more than him. Now hug.’

We hug. Like friends who’ve known each other for decades hug—without a hint of self-consciousness even in a public place like GoForIt. And a few more tears fall. Silent warm ones, onto her pink cashmere Paul Smith cardigan.

We finish the teas and bars and order two more teas.

‘Apart from Dominic, anything or anyone else new or on the horizon?’

‘There’s a new partner who starts on Monday. Joe Ryan. Came from Wilhouse Smyth. Oxford, sharp, good reputation. And young.’

‘How young?’

‘Like ten years my junior young.’

‘Handsome?’

‘Can’t really see in his mug shot. No one looks handsome in their mug shot though.’

‘You do. Have you met him yet?’

‘No, Monday morning, board meeting. 9:00 a.m. We’re all being introduced. You know, usual informal, formal thing. We’ll be working on a case together. The Bensons. Not particularly straightforward. Lots of emotion there. And money.’

‘So no difference then really.’

‘No. Joe Ryan comes well recommended.’

‘Wonder if he’s fit?’

‘Business and pleasure don’t mix, Fran. And I want to get away from dating lawyers and barristers. All we end up talking about is cases, past ones of course. It’s a bit limiting. And takes the innocent romance out of the evening a bit.’

‘I suppose it’s an occupational hazard. You dated that banker last year.’

‘Oh yes, him. The guy I met at someone’s birthday party, invited me to lunch and then proceeded to tell me he has a girlfriend, a five-month-old baby and a very big sex drive and wasn’t being satisfied. So would I be so kind as to relieve his tension.’

‘Yes, think you told him to pay for a hooker.’

‘In a nice way, yes, I think I did. Disturbing thing is, Fran, that this happened to me twice last year. I’d meet someone, talk to them, and they’d think that I’d be game for sex without the relationship bit.’

‘Your problem, Hazel, and it’s always been your problem, is that you’re sexy.’

‘A lot of women are sexy.’

‘Yes, I know that. Let me finish. You’re sexy and bright and come across as independent. You can look after yourself.’

‘I do look after myself.’

‘Yes, let me finish. So you’re sexy and independent. Along comes a guy, unhappy with his sex life, but happy with the status quo of his relationship, meets you, thinks you won’t get all emotional on him, because of the way you come across, and goes for it. Problem is, Hazel, you may do a tough woman’s job, wear the blue suit, stand in court and be as cold as they come, but you’re a big softy. And men may see you as ideal mistress fodder, but you’re not a mistress. You’re a wife, my darling. And they’re very different animals. You’re number one, not number two.’

‘So what am I supposed to be, all submissive then? Play the little woman when I’m not the little woman.’

‘No, be yourself. Always be yourself. Then you’ll meet someone who’ll like you for yourself. Because, Hazel, and don’t take this the wrong way, you’re not what you initially seem. You come across as feisty and confident and together, and you are. You are in many ways, but as your friend I’ve always felt when you’re in a relationship, it brings out the softer side in you. By soft I don’t mean vulnerable. You’re not vulnerable like you were when you were married to David. You don’t attract control freaks quite like you used to. But, and I know you’ll hate me for saying this, because it goes totally against your “I don’t need a man in my life anymore” philosophy, you’re a romantic.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘No perhaps about it. When you’re out of work clothes, you wear printed floaty skirts. Short ones. Your house is dramatic and contemporary, but it’s feminine. Despite the cynical job you do every day, your glass is always half-full. And that’s why you’re fun to be around. And I’m afraid, an optimist against all the odds makes you a romantic.’

‘An optimist perhaps. I don’t see through rose-tinted glasses.’

‘I know you don’t. How can you, doing what you do for a living. I think you see more clearly now than you ever have before, that’s why it’s rather wonderful that you still have this faith. Just be yourself, Hazel. The right man will find this charming and find it, you, utterly irresistible. Mark my words.’

Two more teas arrive. We watch the high-powered aerobics class emerge from the 1 1/2 hour session of stretching, kicking, jumping. They look red and hot and smell of sweaty underwear. Most of them are smiling, high on the adrenaline and the knowledge they won’t have to do it for another seven days. Neither Fran nor I feel guilty.

‘And you never know, Hazel, you may meet someone at my wedding. That’s where a lot of people meet their future husbands, so I’m told.’

‘I do know. My next client met his future wife at one. Only he was married at the time. That’s the problem.’

Chapter Three

Calming Mr Benson

Mr Francis Benson is screaming at me. Occasionally it pitches to a screech. Monday morning. Eight o’clock in the office. Mr Benson, my next client, is on the phone. As he pauses to draw breath, I interrupt.

‘No, Mr Benson, you will not be able to get away with keeping all your money. You were married to your wife for seven years. This is not a long marriage, but it is also not a short one. It is somewhere in between and following the case of Jones vs Jones earlier this year, it is highly likely that you will have to hand over forty-five percent of your assets and a sizeable proportion of your income each month. Do you understand?’

Mr Benson, thirty-eight, equity trader, third marriage, two houses, one mistress, eight rented properties in London (none of which his wife knew about but will soon), one ulcer, does not understand. I sense he is about to spontaneously combust. He sounds as though he has been pacing, or is pacing. I expect he looks like Sarah when she first emerged from my body. All red and squished and incredulous and cross-looking.

Benson spits bile.

‘I hate the fucking bitch. The fucking witch. She did fuck all in the marriage. She had affairs, you know. One while we were engaged and another while we were married. I found out by reading her e-mails and text messages. The slut.’

I don’t interrupt. As a woman and as a divorce lawyer I know there are always two stories to be told. People have affairs because they are unhappy. Because they are restless and bored and selfish. She may have been any one or all of these things. It’s that simple. But I say nothing. It is not my place or my remit to speak. Mrs Benson’s counsel will do that for her in court if it gets that far. I let Mr Benson vent his fury. Better out than in. Better here than in court.

‘I sent her on loads of cookery courses and she couldn’t cook a fucking thing. She brought fuck all to the marriage. Fucking bitch. Ugly fucking bitch. I fucking hate her. I don’t want to give her a single fucking penny.’

I smile because all my male clients mention their wives’ lack of culinary skills when they start to rant, as though they expect me to mention it in court.

‘And please can I raise, m’lord, to your attention, the fact that Mrs Benson failed to cook spotted dick for my client on the days he required. Failed consistently to prepare pasta in the correct way, with the right sauce. And made, in the words of my client “a lousy cup of tea.”

As though it’s a big deal. It obviously is to them. The way to a man’s heart may not be through his stomach, but it certainly miffs him if his wife doesn’t cook. My male clients consistently talk as if it’s right up there with drug problems and emotional cruelty. Suppose it is to them.

‘Yes, I realise that, Mr Benson. Unfortunately, or fortunately I should say, you have two children from your marriage, and you have to support these children and your wife, whether your wife was a good cook or not. She did, in the eyes of the law, support you, and you did, according to my notes, make most of your income and acquire most of your assets—in fact you acquired all of your assets—during the seven-year marriage. So she has supported you during this time as far as the law is concerned, and brought up your children and helped you to become as successful as you are.’

‘Fuck that fuck that fuck that. She has a fucking nanny to take care of the kids. She fucking lunches and does her fucking nails and gets her fucking bikini line waxed. She does fuck all.’

I cross my legs at the mention of bikini wax, feeling for some reason, guilty. As though a finger is pointing at me. Perhaps it’s just my arrow.

‘Yes, Mr Benson, in the settlement her lawyers will take that into account and probably expect you to continue to pay for the waxing and lunches as well. The way the law stands you will have to maintain her standard of living or one similar to it. From what I see, her demands are reasonable.’

I can sense Benson is starting to pace again. I can hear him counting in two three out two three, in two three out two three, under his breath. He’s trying to calm himself down, which is good and I wait until the rage has passed.

‘Are you okay now, Mr Benson?’

‘Yes, please continue.’

So I do. ‘Think of the long-term goals, Mr Benson. Think of the good of your children. It is better you have as little acrimony in the divorce as possible because you will have to maintain contact with your ex-wife because of your children. I suggest you offer the matrimonial home, as your wife will more than likely have custody of the children. But you will probably be able to keep the house in Italy. This all depends on the scale of your financial assets, which I believe are considerable. Your wife is not asking for the Italian home and is in fact asking for much less than she is entitled to, Mr Benson. You do realise that, don’t you?’

Benson is silent, although I can hear him muttering about ‘bitch a penny,’ and then speaks in a much calmer but no less emotional voice.

‘Can I see the children when I want to?’

‘The norm is every other weekend, perhaps one evening a week and two to three weeks’ holiday during the year.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid it is. If you are able to agree to terms out of court as far as access is concerned it will be best for everyone emotionally and financially. And it is good if the children can see as much of their father as possible.’

Benson is silent. I think he’s quietly sobbing.

I don’t like dealing with the child side of divorce. The financial I can do easy. Men tend to get emotional about the money mainly because they think it’s all theirs and view it being taken away from them at a time when they want to burn their old relationship for the new. But it doesn’t happen that way, as they find out, usually to the detriment of their psyches, not to mention their wallets. Divorces may be quicker these days, but they are no less painful. And the pace at which divorce takes place tends to only intensify the heat often exchanged between both parties rather than calm it. I’ve come to the conclusion over the years of practicing family law that given more time, I think both parties would think more clearly, with more compassion.

After a few moments I speak again.

‘We could ask for joint custody, Mr Benson. Would you like that?’

‘I can’t ask for that. I can’t look after them properly. I would need a live-in nanny, and no matter how much I hate the bitch, it’s best that the children are with their mother. I know she loves them and no one will look after them like she will. So I will make sure they are okay.’

‘Well, I think I have all your financial details and if you want to tell me anything else or feel you would like to ask for joint custody, just let me know. What are you doing for the rest of the day, Mr Benson?’

‘Working, as I always do. Mind you, if I retire in a few years’ time, then I might be able to get custody. All I need to do is prove she’s an unfit mother. I’ll watch every fucking step she takes.’

I feel a cold chill down the spine. Sometimes, only sometimes, I get a twinge of memory. Like a period pain, that pulls at my stomach suddenly and silently and disappears just as quickly. A smell, something someone says, a television programme will jog me back to a time I would prefer to forget. Like my own divorce. And I remember David using those same words. ‘All I need to do is prove you’re an unfit mother. I’ll watch every fucking step you take.’ At the time, it struck fear into me. The fear of not seeing Sarah grow up. Of being a terrible mother. And I watched my back. Quietly and consciously I watched my back. Now I hear that phrase so often from my male clients, with the same bile in their voices, that the only emotion it strikes in me is sadness because now I know when either party says this, they’ve lost the plot. And I’ve got to help Benson find it again, for his sake as much as his children’s.

‘If you need a counsellor to talk to, I know a very good one. I realise it’s a very emotional time for you, Mr Benson, but if you can control your anger, you will benefit. As I’ve said, I know a very good one, and they can help in such matters.’

Silence, then, ‘Thank you, Ms Chamberlayne.’

‘Please call me Hazel.’

‘Thank you, Hazel.’

‘I will be working on your case with our new partner, Joe Ryan. He’s very efficient, highly regarded, and I will be briefing him fully on your case this afternoon. He will be assisting me.’

‘Does that mean my bills will double?’

‘No. When he’s working on the case, I won’t be, and he’s cheaper by the hour than I am.’

Mr Benson laughs. Which is good, although I think he’s probably thinking along the lines of another woman who’s costing him a lot of money.

‘Good to know.’

‘If you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to call me.’

‘At £300 an hour, Hazel, I may think twice about it.’

‘I know, but it may save you more than that if you have some doubts.’

I put the phone down, my left ear still slightly stinging from Benson’s screeching and stare out the window of Chamberlayne, Stapleton and Ryan. One of the top companies specialising in matrimonial law. I sit blue-suited, hair up in a loose ponytail in my small, white, slightly untidy office with shelves up to the ceiling on one wall, and a very large print by Nelson Mandela I bought at the Ideal Home Show a few years ago. The one with a lighthouse which I find very calming to look at and even chills clients like Mr Benson. My office looks out over Chancery Lane, down to the street that is quietly buzzing with more blue-suited people, hurrying to their offices with trays of Caffé Nero coffees and bags of bagels for partners and barristers too lazy or superior to get their own. It’s a sunny day, and it makes me smile…full frontal tears, hate and anger first thing on a Monday morning and I can still smile at the sunshine. Perhaps Fran is right. Perhaps I am a romantic after all.

Chapter Four

Meeting Joe Ryan

I’m blushing. I don’t blush. Well, I do, but I haven’t blushed since I was a teenager and I had my first kiss with sexy class lothario John Bullman in Mr Boniface’s fourth year science class. He asked me if he could look at how I was cutting up my very stiff dead rat. I leaned back on my stool and he stole a kiss. I was so surprised I blushed then fell backwards, dead rat flying into the lap of Maxine Levine, who screamed the room down, in much the same tone as Benson did this morning.

I’m blushing because I’ve met Joe Ryan. I have that frisson of electricity running through my body. That double take. That slightly sick feeling. Joe Ryan has something about him. A presence. I don’t know if I think he’s gorgeous. Perhaps not obviously gorgeous in a George Clooney or Jude Law or Brad Pitt sort of way. More in a, well, a thinking woman’s bit of crumpet. Like, well, like, I can’t think of anyone at the moment. So perhaps I’m not that woman. I’m not a thinking woman because I can’t think at the moment. But I think, I know, this man sitting in front of me, has ‘it’. And I like it. Probably an arrogant bastard. No, don’t judge him, Hazel. You haven’t even taken in what he’s wearing. What he smells like. How he’s groomed. Don’t judge. Poor man. He hasn’t even opened his mouth yet. You’ve just walked through the boardroom door, briefly surveyed the room, looked down and he’s sitting there. In fact, he’s in the chair I usually sit in (bit miffed about this actually), light flooding in behind him like some halo. And he’s looked up at me. He’s looked up at me. He’s looking up at me. And I’m blushing.