The Younger Man Page 3

  ‘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 ½ 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 t
he 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.

  Brian Stapleton, forty-five, senior partner, good friend, Oxford educated, brilliant and unassuming, living in four-bedroom House and Gardens house on Richmond on The Hill, with his male partner, Orlando, is sitting on Joe’s right. He is clearly amused by my reaction. I’ve known Brian for ten years, worked with him for five. He can usually double guess me—a useful skill in any personal relationship and absolutely necessary in our line of business when we frequently need to confer and agree nonverbally about clients in meetings without saying a word. He’s ever so slightly bitchy, but that only comes out after a few gin and tonics at the local pub after work, but he’s a loyal, caring friend, excellent, ruthless solicitor and very good cook. He’s smiling knowingly at me, the bugger.

  ‘Joe, this is Hazel Chamberlayne. She was on holiday I believe when we first met, but she took me at my word that your credentials and attitude are impressive.’

  He turns to me. ‘Hazel, this is Joe Ryan.’

  Joe Ryan smiles, stands and offers me his hand. My instinct is to lean down, suck his fingers very slowly not taking my eyes from his. I’m ovulating at the moment, I logic. That’s why I feel so horny. And I watched Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean last night. But I didn’t feel like this a minute ago when I was smiling at the sunshine. I must be professional. I must be composed and I must stop blushing.

  ‘Hello, very nice to meet you.’

  I give him a wide warm smile and stop breathing for a second.

  ‘Very nice to meet you, too.’

  We sit facing each other, and Brian starts. ‘Well, Joe will be shadowing you on the Benson case, so he can see how we operate in the firm. If you could brief him this morning, Hazel, and put him up to speed that would be good. Joe’s dealt with lots of cases like this before, so I don’t think anything will be new to him but we operate in a specific way here, Joe, and you’ll learn a lot from Hazel. Benson’s behaving in a very formulaic way, as is his wife, who’s hired a good firm of solicitors, so I don’t think there will be any complications with this one. There’s no issue over child custody, well, not yet anyway, and as far as I know, the demands on both sides are reasonable. But Benson does have a temper, and I believe Hazel has suggested he see a counsellor, just in case he makes an impromptu outburst in court.’

  I say nothing. I realise I am still giving Joe Ryan the same wide warm smile I gave him as I entered the room. The smile has become fixed on my face and I feel about twelve. I’m turning forty this year. Hazel, will you please grow up and
behave like a grown-up and not like some adolescent schoolgirl. This is silly. This is especially silly as I didn’t want him to join the firm. I didn’t want another partner to join the firm, which was fine as it was, but Brian wanted someone else. More people are getting divorced, he says, so we’ve got to have more people to service them. I was happy as it was and despite my attraction, I’m annoyed he’s here at all. I don’t want him here. And he’s too good-looking. He’ll sleep with the clients. Not good. I must have a word with Brian when Joe’s out of the room.

  Brian continues, still smiling wryly. ‘Joe will be in the office next to you, Hazel. We’re hiring a new PA this week, to replace Jennifer who’s gone on maternity leave. As you will be sharing her as well, Hazel, I think you should both interview her, either separately or collectively, whichever you prefer.’

  And that’s another thing that’s pissed me off. New partner but we have to share PAs. Ridiculous, but Brian also knows my thoughts on this and has obviously decided one is good for the two of us. So doubly pissed off.

  I’ve managed to control the smile and the blushes and speak. ‘That’s fine.’

  Brian then proceeds to discuss all other matters. Other cases in hand which I will be dealing with over the next few months, including one that involves flying to New York. Which is great, because I can stock up on my knicker drawer with Victoria’s Secrets.

  He talks about what Joe will be doing in the firm, and how we will work together. I’m listening and taking it in but it’s all a bit surreal because I’m feeling some very strong mixed emotions—annoyed and attracted at the same time. And I don’t find many men attractive these days. I’m not talking physically here—I just mean as people. Even those ones I meet out of court. I don’t play the game of boosting their egos so eventually they can knock mine down. If they say they’re not worthy of me, I let them. If they boast about their sexual prowess, I let them. And eventually they calm down, forget to impress or appear sensitive or macho and become themselves. So I haven’t been attracted to many men. I’ve spent years bringing up Sarah and working and men have made an occasional guest appearance—usually about one in every two years, when I could fit them in. I would never introduce them to Sarah for the first few months, and then I would introduce them, see how they spoke to her and dealt with her questioning. I remember her asking Dominic once if he loved me. He said he did, and she said that was nice but that he wasn’t good enough for me. One of the lesser embarrassing moments. The very few who I allowed into my diary and my heart, like I did with Dominic, they’ve broken it—so I don’t want to go there again. And especially not with someone I work with. Fran’s right. I do come across as much stronger than I am. I’m not as strong so I’m wary now, very wary of any sort of attraction—and especially one that starts in the office. Plus, I don’t want this sort of complication here. This is my territory, where I am strong and confident and focused. I don’t want a man messing up both my professional and personal life all in one go. But I’ve had the lightning bolt. I’ve never had a lightning-bolt moment. Fran is right about that, too, they do come when you least expect them. My heart jumps every time Joe Ryan utters a word. It’s very disconcerting. It’s as though I’m concentrating on the way he speaks rather than what he’s saying. He has a dark honeyed voice. He speaks neither too fast nor too slow, with considered pauses and the right inflection at the right time. For fuck’s sake, Hazel, you’re analysing his speech. Hope he doesn’t ask me anything. I’ve got to concentrate, but at least that gives me an opportunity to survey him further and take him in properly. He looks young. He looks older than twenty-nine but I’m sure he said twenty-nine. He looks midthirties, possibly early thirties. He looks younger than me. But not by much. He’s got blue, no green, no (mustn’t stare too much into his eyes now), brown eyes. Yes, brown eyes and long eyelashes. Why do men always have long eyelashes? I have to buy YSL extra-long eyelash mascara to get a decent length. Strong chin, olive skin. Or perhaps he’s been on holiday recently, probably with the girlfriend. Or perhaps it could have been with the lads. To South America or China perhaps—or if he’s square, Australia or the South of France. He’s wearing a dark blue suit so nothing new there. It’s well tailored and well fitting, but all men look good in suits. Brian always dresses well, but he’s gay so that’s to be expected. Perhaps Joe Ryan is, too. Probably for the best anyway if he is. I survey his hands. They are large and there’s no wedding ring. Which is a good thing—although this may mean he is gay, or German (German men don’t wear wedding rings), or perhaps he’s just fussy and hasn’t found the right girl yet—or has, but she won’t marry him, silly girl. Or perhaps can’t because she’s married already. There’s one signet ring perhaps given to him by his mother or lover or girlfriend. Or someone else’s girlfriend. What does he smell like? I breathe in, trying to make sense of the scent. Is he wearing aftershave or is it his natural pheromones? Can’t tell so will have to find that one out later. Over a drink at lunch perhaps. Is he slim? Can’t tell as he’s sitting down. Tall? Probably. He sits up quite straight, but perhaps he’s got a long body and short, stodgy legs, his feet dangling off the floor like some five-year-old school boy. Perhaps I should drop a pen and find out if he’s a munchkin. I drop a pen and look under the table. No, no, his feet are on the floor. Black shiny shoes. Churches. Euck. Churches, as worn by City Boys. Perhaps he’s square. But Brian wouldn’t have hired a square, nor someone gay, as he knows both wouldn’t fit into the chemistry of the office. I pick up the pen and return to the table, Brian staring at me smiling as though he knows what I’ve been doing. He probably thinks I’m trying to check out the size of Joe’s manhood. As if I could see. Not that it didn’t pass my mind.