by Sarah Tucker
He suggests we go dancing at the club Pisstake. An all-black nuclear bunker of a place that looks as if a submarine and space ship have been submerged into the heart of EC1. Grey suits and their mini-skirted assistants smooch and drink alcopops and Red Bulls and gaze at other grey suits and mini-skirted assistants smooching and gazing back at them. We stand out in blue, not that I ever thought I would stand out in blue—but we do here. My instinct says this is perhaps not a good idea. The atmosphere is heavy with sex rather than romance. But I think, what’s the harm—knowing full well what the harm could be. But if I keep it short and it’s all in the cause of improving work relations. I say, fine, but not for too long. It is Tuesday.
Maroon 5 is playing and it reminds me of what I was doing on Friday night, which makes me smile and aroused at the same time. We start to dance in the darkness, almost the only couple on the floor. Joe twists and turns and pulls me to him and away and I shimmy round him and giggle because it reminds me of school dances and trying desperately to keep pace with boys who knew their own rhythm but wouldn’t or couldn’t compromise it for a girl. Then suddenly the music slows and we’re bumping and grinding and he’s looking into my eyes and I’m looking into his eyes and our lips are getting closer but we don’t kiss. And we’re teasing each other and giggling and smiling. But hey, this is very sexy and lovely. I’m drunk but I know what I know. And we bump and grind for the record. I can’t hear the words. I just feel the beat. The earthy heavy regular beat. And I realise he wants to kiss me but I pull back and smile and mouth not here.
After dancing for I don’t know how long (I can’t focus on my watch since I’ve drunk too much), I suggest we go to find a taxi. It’s late and we have a case in the morning. He agrees and leads me, well, sort of carries me, up the stairs to the almost deserted street. So perhaps it’s quite late. Must be after eleven.
We turn a corner into a small alleyway leading to a group of sushi bars and assorted restaurants. There’s a tiny courtyard to the right and a small conservatory within the courtyard. I don’t know if it’s part of a house or part of a bar. It has plants and glass ceilings but it’s quiet and he turns to me and he’s going to kiss me. I know he’s going to kiss me. He moves toward me and very gently pushes me against the wall, using his presence rather than his body to move me backwards. But it’s not what I expect. He holds me, looking intense. Almost strained. He doesn’t say anything. I feel, hold on one minute. This is a kiss. That’s all. Nothing more than a kiss with a work colleague when you’re a little bit worse the wear for drink. That’s all. Don’t make of this more than it is. But I don’t say anything because this is strange and unexpected and I want to go with the flow.
I’m up against the wall now and again I think he’s going to kiss me. But he doesn’t. He pushes his face closer to mine and rubs cheeks. Brushing slowly and breathing down my neck, which I find odd and erotic at the same time. He holds my hair. Not pulling. Stroking. And moves his hand down over my cheeks to my lips. Kiss now then. No. Still no kiss. Shall I try to kiss him? Perhaps not. It looks so silly when I pucker up and it’s not reciprocated. Feel like a fish. So wait. He’ll kiss me soon. He still looks pained. He’s breathing quite deeply now. Slowly, he’s tilting my head back so I feel more vulnerable. And he breathes on my skin. And he breathes and he breathes. God, this is erotic. I want to shout, Joe, will you just fucking kiss me and get it over with. This is too heavy. This is too heavy. But I don’t shout or speak because then he picks me up. He physically picks me up and my skirt lifts around my thighs. He pins me against the wall. And I sit there, in his arms being breathed on. I don’t know whether I want to laugh or rip this man’s clothes off. This is not a kiss. This is not the kiss I wanted. It’s something else.
And then someone walks round the corner and he gently drops me so I’m standing almost touching him, and I stare at him, thinking what the fuck was that. Actually, I think I say, ‘What the fuck was that?’
‘Was what?’
‘That non-kiss’
‘I don’t know. Sorry, Hazel. Sorry.’
His look of suffering is still there.
‘I thought you were going to kiss me.’
He’s silent for a moment. Then he says, ‘I wanted to do a lot more than kiss you, Hazel. A lot more.’
I feel sick. Not, drunk-too-much-sick, more lust-sick. As though if I don’t get my fix of sex or even a kiss soon I’m going to pass out. Perhaps it was a good thing I didn’t see him on Friday night considering the way I was feeling, but it’s satisfying, deeply satisfying to know someone I find exciting, also finds me exciting. But I’m frustrated because I haven’t got a kiss and to be blunt, I want one. So I say, ‘I guessed that. All tense and frustrated now, wasn’t an hour ago.’
‘I know. So am I. So am I.’
We walk along the street, back toward Liverpool Street station, staring at passersby who seem as out of it as we are. Or perhaps they just seem that way to us. I’m energised and tired at the same time. I find a queue of cabs and ask one of the drivers to take me to Wimbledon Common. He says ‘fine luv and ’op in,’ which I do. Joe leans in after me, thanking me for a lovely evening.
‘Thank you for a lovely evening, Hazel.’
I say nothing. I’m still fazed by the non-kiss. I’m not sure if he’s teasing me, or unsettling me on purpose, or I’ve got it all wrong and he feels a similar sexual attraction to me as I do to him. Or he’s playing with me, like some schoolboy. After all, he’s younger than me, ten years younger—so I can’t expect emotional maturity from someone like this. How can he start to understand me, not that I particularly want him to. We have nothing in common. Our friends would be vastly different ages, our social habits vastly different. We have one thing in common—we work together, and even that we don’t do very well. All my reasoning and logic is telling me to leave it.
‘You’re lovely,’ he says, nuzzling my nose, then moving away, breathing very softly on my cheek.
My mind is buzzing. Thinking one thing, then the next, then the next. It’s one tangled mess of ideas and conclusions and possibilities and what-ifs. Perhaps this is all technique. All mind manipulation. Like remarking on a girl’s jewellery so you can stroke their wrist or their neck for a chance to brush against an erogenous zone. Perhaps he thinks forty is the sexual prime of women, so he wants to try me out for size. Too crude, Hazel. Too crude. I don’t really know what to say. It’s not what I expected. I expected a drink and a chat, perhaps some mild flirting, but well, this was odd. Very odd. I still resent him. Resent him because I’ve just got used to a state of being by myself now that Sarah will be gone soon. But he’s not what I thought he was. I thought him ambitious and cool and, of course, extremely handsome, but he became almost vulnerable this evening. Almost. I think I’m on a roller coaster, but it’s dark, so don’t know what’s coming and whether it’s going to be good or bad, tame or exciting. But my track record of reading signs is lousy, so what do I know? And do I really want this? Do I want to go on another relationship-ride again? They’re fun but exhausting—rarely giving more than they take from you in my experience. But hey, what do I know? Besides, he’ll forget it all tomorrow morning. And perhaps, so may I.
Chapter Eight
Meeting the Other Woman?
He’s forgotten. I can tell he’s forgotten. It’s Wednesday morning and we’re meeting with Brian to update him on our progress with several cases. Joe looks me straight in the eye, cool as a cucumber. Nothing. Nothing behind those eyes. Obviously, last night was meaningless. Ever so unprofessional of us both I think, but then I should know better. I’m forty, a woman of the world. He’s twenty-nine, a boy. A mere boy. Thank God it didn’t go any further. Forget it. He has, so should I.
So we sit, talking about optimising the client fee base over coffee and pain au chocolat and a mild hangover.
Coming out of Brian’s office I head straight for mine. I’m vaguely aware of a woman waiting by Marion’s desk. She’s chatting to Marion animatedly, altho
ugh Marion doesn’t seem as though she’s listening or interested. The woman looks up at me. She’s about thirty-three, but could be younger or older. Can’t really tell, but you never can these days. People don’t look, dress or act their age any more. You get forty-year-olds clubbing and twenty-somethings vegging out in the library and chilling to Classics and Radio Four. She is tall, I would say about five-eight, with brown hair and dark eyes—can’t work out if they’re green or brown. Perhaps both. Wearing a pinkish dress with little flowers. Pretty. She has a wide face, wide smile and high cheekbones. She looks out of place in our clinically white office. Fresh-faced and almost rosy. Smiling at me, she introduces herself.
Fiona is Joe’s girlfriend of twelve years. I learn this the morning after the night before. Fiona tells me direct.
‘Hello, my name is Fiona. I’m Joe’s girlfriend.’
Hello, my name is Hazel and I work with your boyfriend and last night I dirty danced with him, almost kissed him and seriously considered sleeping with him. And I think, although can’t be sure, that he felt the same.
I say, ‘Hello, I’m Hazel Chamberlayne. I work with Joe. Nice to meet you.’
Fiona Gilhoolhy walks toward me and shakes my hand. ‘I’ve heard so much about you. Joe thinks you’re amazing. Don’t you, Joe?’
Joe is standing nearby, with Brian. For half a minute his face looks like one of those TV ads which have now been banned because they unethically manipulate (surely all advertising does this) the viewers when hundreds of images are shown in two-second rapid succession. This happens on Joe’s face. First a look of white shock, then horror, then realisation that he is looking horrified, then brain working overtime, then recognition that he should not look horrified, and definitely not look guilty, then recognition he should smile, then smiles, then recognition that smile does not look natural, then natural smile, then shoulders down, then composure. All in all, about ten different looks, all within 3 seconds. And I witness all of them. So does Fiona. So does Brian. Thank God he’s better at acting ambivalence in the courtroom.
He turns to me and introduces Fiona.
‘Hazel, this is Fiona, my girlfriend.’
I know, she’s already introduced herself to me.
I turn to Fiona who is staring at Joe. Her eyes look a little sad now.
‘I was just passing on the way to work and thought I would say hi and ask if you’re free for lunch.’
Joe, now smiling naturally, appearing composed, as he would in any major courtroom in the country, says he is free. ‘Yes, darling, although it will have to be a short one. About one okay?’
‘Yes, that would be lovely.’
Fiona Gilhoolhy faces me, eyes still sad. Smiling, she says it’s nice to meet me.
‘It’s very nice to meet you. I hope we meet again.’ Fiona gives Joe a hug, one of those ones you give people that mean something. It’s the sort of hug a mother gives her child, hugging tightly and gently stroking with the fingers, in an almost, there, there, motion. She closes her eyes. Joe looks stiff and uncomfortable. He’s going through another round of more shock, horror, recognition, recovery and reciprocal affection. With meaning. With eyes open. Thank heavens I can’t see my own face. I always was pretty transparent when I was younger, but I’ve learnt through personal and professional experience to present a mask which has become pretty Teflon-proof. Something Joe has yet to learn, me thinks.
Fiona turns and goes, briefly saying hello to Brian, who looks unashamedly bemused then charmed by her presence.
I ask Marion if she can come to my office in half an hour for some shorthand, then head straight to my office, saying nothing to either Brian or Joe, as my mind is now going faster than if I had had ten extra-strong black coffees. I close the door and ring Fran.
‘Hi, Hazel, how are you?’
‘Me, fine. Fine. Actually no, I’m not fine. You know Joe. Joe Ryan, guy I’m working with. Twenty-nine-year-old, sexy, you think there are possibilities.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, last night, we went out drinking because he felt there was tension between us and we weren’t getting on.’
‘There is tension between you, but it’s sexual tension, surely he knows that.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Thought he did, and yes, I thought he felt the same, but he’s twenty-nine, so perhaps he’s not as smart, or emotionally smart as I thought. Anyway, as I was saying, we went out, had something to eat, got a bit tipsy.’
‘Both of you.’
‘Yes, both of us. And then went dancing. And then we went outside.’
Silence.
More confused silence other end.
‘And you kissed.’
‘No.’
‘You had sex?’
‘No.’
‘You talked.’
‘No.’
‘So let me get this right, you went outside, didn’t kiss, didn’t have sex and didn’t talk.’
‘Well, he held me. He held me up against a wall and breathed on me. Nearly kissed me. But didn’t say a word. He just looked into my eyes and almost kissed me and breathed on me and pushed my head back so I could feel it more and well, that was it.’
‘What’s he like this morning?’
‘Well, he was ambivalent this morning. He didn’t say anything to me about last night and I thought, hey, these things happen. Nothing happened—well, it did—but nothing happened—and it was just one of those manoeuvres to try to break the tension.’
‘Despite the fact that it’s probably added to it.’
‘Exactly. It’s just that I felt, well, that he was a game player, that he didn’t like me and was just trying to unnerve me. He was drunk and I was drunk, I should probably let it lie there.’
‘I agree.’
‘But that’s not all…he has a girlfriend.’
‘They always do, Hazel.’
‘She came into the office today. Just now, this morning. Just popping in to ask him for lunch. She saw me and introduced herself and said he had spoken a lot about me and he looked shocked and guilty and lost his composure and when she hugged him he looked as stiff as a board.’
‘So, he obviously does remember last night then. Why would he look guilty?’
‘I know, I thought that. I thought that. But you know, Fiona, the girlfriend, I think she’s about my age, and she looked, well, she looked nice. She looked really nice, and sad. You know. Sad eyes like I used to have when I was splitting up with David. She had those eyes. Rest of the face, the demeanour was smiling. The eyes were sad.’
‘Don’t get involved, Hazel. Don’t get involved. You went out last night with someone you have a chemistry with and you have to work with that person. You don’t like the fact he’s there in the office, but you are attracted to him sexually.’
‘Well…’
‘Well, nothing, you want him, darling, but you’re not going to do anything because your life is settled, you’re happy and you need someone in your life but not one you work with ideally or with baggage. This guy works with you and has baggage in the shape of sad-eyed Fiona. Not your problem. Don’t make it your problem. I have to go Hazel, meeting Daniel to talk about honeymoons. And by the way, don’t forget we have lunch on Sunday with the girls at Le Pont.’
‘I won’t forget and thanks for the advice.’
‘All advice is bad, and good advice is worse. I’ve just told you what you already know. Byee.’
Click.
Lunch on Sunday with the girls—Doreen, Carron, Valerie and Fran. All old school friends I’ve known since I was eleven. All forty this year. All different from me. And all of whom would probably tell me to steer clear of Joe.
Joe walks through my door without knocking, looking transparently uncool.
‘So you know I have a girlfriend.’
He stands in my slightly untidy office at 9:00 a.m., in the doorway. He’s wearing a smart, what looks like a Paul Smith suit, dripping with guilt and pheromones. I don’t say anything. Why should I? We haven’t d
one anything. Okay, we danced and we had this electric non-kiss moment, or whatever you call it, but it’s not as if we had sex or anything. Then why am I miffed? Why can I feel something in my stomach go thud. And he obviously feels guilty. He feels he needs to explain so that it doesn’t happen again—the dance and the non-kissing. I think about saying something trite like, ‘that’s fine’, but I don’t. I say nothing. This fazes him a bit. I can see it’s confusing him. I can see he expects me to fill the embarrassed gap. I don’t.
‘I’ve been going out with Fiona for twelve years. I live with her.’
I smile and tell him I think she’s lovely, which I genuinely do.
‘She’s lovely. Very beautiful.’
‘She is,’ he says. ‘She is and I’m happy. And I love her. And she loves me… Okay, I’m not happy, I haven’t been for some time, but we’re treading water emotionally at the moment. Things are okay. But I don’t feel for her the way I used to. I don’t love her that way anymore.’
I freeze. I don’t love her that way anymore. He said, I don’t love her that way anymore. That’s what David said to me all those years ago and that’s what male clients say to me when they’re petitioning or have been petitioned, usually when they’ve met someone else. And Joe doesn’t love Fiona that way anymore. And hasn’t done for years. And has been treading water emotionally and doing nothing about it until he meets another woman. And this time, I’m the other woman. I’m in the same play I was all those years ago, just a different character, with a slightly different plotline. Just like one of the those Elvis Presley movies which are set on a different beach, with different songs but that same scenario.
