The Younger Man Read online

  A tear runs down my face, which I explain away to Angie as being something in my eye.

  Angie sees through it.

  ‘Sarah’s off to university soon, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Miss her, won’t you?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Another tear falls, so she changes the subject.

  ‘So you think women want to grow up?’

  ‘I don’t know about all women, but I don’t fear growing up. I quite relish it. I look forward to it. Hassles and all. After all, with age comes experience. Not necessarily increased wisdom, but experience. And I get more of a buzz, much more of a buzz, out of emotional experiences than I think many of the men I meet do, on all levels.’

  Angie smiles again.

  ‘You’re in the minority then, darling. As for growing up or getting old as most people call it, I don’t think most of the women who come to this gym look forward to it one little bit. I have at least fifty women in here a week talking to me about how they bemoan the latest line on their face, or vein in their leg, and how, if they had the money, they would have Botox, or surgery to lift and tuck something somewhere. Believe me, Hazel, these women want to hold back time just as any Peter Pan. Just as much as men do.’

  ‘That’s different, Angie. Yes, I agree, they want to hold back the physical aspects of ageing. We all do. I do. That wouldn’t be natural, although ironically, that’s what the ageing process is—natural. But I don’t think women want to hold back the emotional aspects of ageing. Of gaining experience. I think they rather enjoy that bit. I just think they’re emotionally, well, how can I put it, emotionally deeper, more interesting, more dimensional than men. They have the potential to have more fun with life if they only had the courage and believed in themselves a little more than they do. Like men do. I think women have the capacity to, well, how can I put it, to emotionally orgasm. Don’t think men can.’

  Angie laughs. ‘Never heard it described that way, but think I know what you mean. So, let me get this right, you think men are rather emotionally frigid?’

  ‘Yep. Well, the men I’ve met are. Both in my professional and personal life.’

  ‘And simple?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘So if these men of yours are such simple creatures then, why can’t you understand them?’

  ‘I can. They’re boring emotionally. We think they’re straightforward because that sounds more hopeful, more positive, but actually they’re just boring. Immature if you like, but they’re less honest than children and don’t say what they mean or mean what they say. Or know what they want or want what they need. Children are honest and do say what they want and need. I find men emotionally one-dimensional. Bit dull.’

  ‘Not all of them surely. What about the romantic gestures they make? You’ve told me about some of the lovely weekends to Prague, New York and Milan you’ve been on care of these boring emotional insipid men of yours. They’ve been spontaneous with flowers and actions.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘That shows emotional depth.’

  ‘No, it shows imagination. Consideration. Thoughtfulness. If they want something in return, it shows logic, probable manipulation, it doesn’t show emotional depth.’

  ‘How do you gain emotional depth, then? How do men gain emotional depth?’

  ‘For me, was when I gave birth to Sarah. And when I got divorced. I gained an inner strength, an impetus, an edge, an understanding, a focus, an energy, a direction, through childbirth and divorce I didn’t have before.’

  ‘You didn’t gain any of those things when you got married?’

  ‘No. I became a part of something. I wasn’t whole anymore.’

  ‘Don’t you lose yourself a bit when you become a mother, too?’

  ‘I found being a mother is as whole as they come. And the mother figure as any religion or prophet or tarot card reader will tell you, is the strongest card in the deck. Most powerful. Most resourceful. Most compassionate.’

  ‘So how did your divorce make you whole?’

  ‘I got my name back and my self-esteem, having gone through the steepest learning curve I hope I’ll ever experience. I rediscovered my identity.’

  ‘Don’t you think your ex did, as well?’

  ‘He never lost his. Moreover, he went straight to someone else, so didn’t give himself time to discover who he was by himself anyway, which is why he’ll never change.’

  ‘You’ve been out with divorcees and fathers yourself. Didn’t they have emotional depth? Didn’t they show how much they loved their children? They’ve been through the same experiences you have, after all.’

  ‘To be blunt, no. In my opinion—and from what I’ve observed—little changes for a new father. Or little in relation to the mother. Those I’ve dated view fatherhood as responsibility, one they are happy to take on, to talk about, to show off, but it’s responsibility all the same.’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh, Hazel.’

  ‘I know. It’s harsh. I know. And it’s disappointing to think like that, isn’t it.? That men, the ones I’ve met at least, are that shallow. And isn’t it so much nicer to believe in the caring father figure and the romantic hero? The white knight. The Mr Darcy. Much nicer to think men think about their children in the same way women do, wouldn’t it? That men think about women the same way women think about men. That they grieve and hurt in the same way women do. That they gain emotionally through experience. But they don’t. Not the ones I’ve known anyway. They don’t learn. They don’t have the same nurturing chip as women have because, bottom line, they’re the ones that need the nurturing. Even Peter Pan needed his Wendy.’

  ‘So if you stopped nurturing them, do you think they’d grow up emotionally?’

  ‘No. And that’s the rub. That’s why it’s disappointing and futile to try. All of mine had this fixation to be and stay young, whatever their age, which makes them fun and fickle, but ultimately rather draining—taking from me emotionally rather than giving back. But I live in hope. I will never give up looking.’

  I sit and scrutinise my crotch, which is now blotch free and quite sexy. I remember the time when I was in the car with an old boyfriend and he was stroking my inner thigh, gradually working his way up, and I realised I hadn’t waxed for ages, and didn’t want him to go there. I wonder what he’d think of this now. My cupid arrow. Angie jolts me out of my reverie.

  ‘So, my love, how do you feel about turning forty?’

  ‘Fabulous. My school friends are all turning this year as well. Meeting up with them in a few weeks for a celebration of sorts. I know it’s not usual to say this but I’m quite excited about turning forty, Angie. Quite excited.’

  ‘Good for you, darling. Good for you.’

  I like Angie. Angie doesn’t give me any homespun philosophies or advice, but does make me think. Thought for the day—are men emotionally shallow or is there a free-spirited, fun, funny, sexually imaginative Peter Pan out there who also happens to be emotionally mature? Please discuss.

  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-acclaime
d 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 be
ing 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.’