The Younger Man

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-theart 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, before 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.

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