The Younger Man

by Sarah Tucker

  As we start to eat, Angus leans over to my ear and whispers, ‘So what’s this I hear about you dating a Brazilian guy ten years your junior?’

  Chapter Ten

  Joe Makes a Decision

  ‘I’ve decided to tell her.’

  ‘Tell her what?’ Joe walks into my office without knocking on Monday morning at 8.30 a.m. carrying double espresso in one hand and FT in the other. My Monday mornings are always challenging, but recently they’ve become quite eventful.

  ‘You’ve decided to tell her what?’

  ‘That I want to separate and that we can’t live together anymore. Do you mind me talking to you, Hazel?’

  ‘Not at all, not at all. Please sit down.’

  Joe sits down, drops FT on the floor and coffee on my desk. His hair looks slightly messy. And there’s some stubble. Not usual solicitor look but I like it. Sort of a smarter version of Jamie Oliver. It quite suits him. He continues.

  ‘I’ve been trying to deal with this with kindness and thought I was being kind but don’t think I was. You don’t know much about me, Hazel, but I’m not a bad person and I didn’t expect to meet you. I haven’t been happy with Fiona for some time now but haven’t done anything about it, because, well, because I love her, I’m just not in love with her any more. And we’re good friends. And I was starting to feel, well, this is as good as it gets. And now, well, now, all her friends are getting married and having children and she’s thirty-seven, and I know she wants to get married and have children and I was just plodding along and then I meet you. I meet you and, well, I don’t know whether it would be kinder to stay or to go. And I don’t know if I’ve been kind by staying all this time when I feel it wasn’t right, or it would be kinder to leave now, or have left all those years ago.’

  What can I say? What do I say to this man who looks very tired and stressed and like many of the clients I initially see on their first or second meeting with me about petitioning for divorce or having just received one.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Well, I’ll have to leave the house or she will. One of us has to leave. She’ll be very distressed but she has family—a large family around her and this will help her. We also have mutual friends—a lot of them—and this also will help her, if not me.’

  ‘Does she suspect you’ve met someone else?’

  ‘I made the error of mentioning you a lot when I first joined the company. Believe it or not, in glowing terms, and I think that’s why I got the impromptu meeting about lunch. She thinks you’re lovely and, well, everything I said you were. She asked me direct if I was seeing you. I said no. She asked me if I had slept with you, I said no. She asked me if I had kissed you. She asked me a lot of questions. So although she may suspect I think she knows I wouldn’t do that. But I feel guilty and I’m upset, but I can’t stop thinking about you, Hazel. And I work with you. So it’s not as if I can have a break from you. From seeing your face every morning. Hearing your voice. Being near you.’

  I’m stunned, feeling sick again and with an incredible urge to get up, walk round the table and kiss him passionately on the lips and allow him to wrap his arms around my waist and pull me to him. But I don’t, because I know it wouldn’t be right, though it would feel right. I know that he has to sort his life out because I can’t do it for him or become involved. I don’t want him to offload his guilt or angst onto me because it’s not fair. But because he’s spoken the way he has, with the feeling he has for both Fiona’s feelings and his own, I like him more. I, well, I more than like him.

  ‘You’ve got to sort this out by yourself, Joe. I like you a lot. And yes, I think there is a chemistry between us. I thought initially it was just lust. Just chemistry—and that is difficult to work with, but then I’ve got to know you over the days and weeks and I like you. I enjoy being with you in and out of the courtroom. But I’ve met Fiona, and I know you think she doesn’t know, but I think she does. I think she loves you very much and whatever you do now, it will break her heart. I know. I’ve been there. So be kind. Be honest and be kind. If it’s a separation, don’t say it’s a trial separation and give her hope. Because she will hope. If you tell her now it’s over, but there is no one else, you won’t be lying. Not technically. And give yourself some space. Christ, after twelve years, you need space from a relationship to find your own identity again. What is true for a woman is also true of a man. You need that time. And so does she.’

  ‘But I’ve wasted so much of her life. I haven’t given her a child or married her. I haven’t given her the security of either of those things. And as she mentioned to me a few times last night in tears, she’ll be forty soon.’

  ‘So what’s wrong with being forty? I’m forty this year.’

  ‘Yes, but you’ve been married. You’ve got a child and she hasn’t. She’s waited for me to make my mind up. And I have. And it’s not to spend the rest of my life with her. And that’s not kind.’

  ‘Would staying with her, marrying her, having children, be kinder? Are you happy enough for that? You say you love her—is there enough love and friendship to make it last. If you have children, as you well know, it’s different. You’ve got to think about things like this. You’ve got to think, Joe, about what would be kinder for her and for you. If you feel there is enough there to work on, you must work for it. If not, then you must go and tell her there is no turning back.’

  ‘But I feel so guilty.’

  ‘Then give her the house.’

  ‘I don’t feel that guilty.’

  ‘Then don’t give her the house. But make a decision.’

  ‘I have. We’re separating. I was thinking of asking you about how I should tell her it’s over for good. But thought that inappropriate. You’re not exactly the right person to bounce ideas off, are you?’

  ‘Wrong person to bounce ideas off, Joe. All I will say is be self-deprecating when you do it. If you cry she’ll either pity you or think you’re pathetic and need mothering—neither outcome of which will help you or her. Don’t say “I need space, feelings change, you could do better with someone else, you’re too good for me, we don’t talk any more, or I think of you as a sister”. All of which may be true of course, but no girl, especially one you’ve been sleeping with for over twelve years, wants to hear it. Of course, you could start behaving like a twat, in which case she’ll think “he’s a twat, what did I ever see in him?”, but it’s been twelve years so she should know you inside out by now. Whatever you do don’t tell her you like someone else. It’s good she has a large family and good friends to go to, who are I hope are balanced, intelligent and will not goad her into either killing herself or killing you or cutting up your clothes. Don’t try to be nice and don’t get nasty. If you do it right she will hate you for about a year, may be a couple. If you get it wrong, she will hate you forever.’

  ‘Oh, that’s okay then. I feel much better. Must remember to ask you about all my personal problems.’

  I smile. He looks stressed but he’s brought this on himself. No one else has.

  ‘You asked. I give advice on how to behave in matters of separation with as little blood as possible. There are no children involved, unless you can count your behaviour as childish, and I don’t know about when she moved in and whose money is whose, but you know as well as I do all the ins and outs of situations like this as far as the technicalities are concerned.’

  ‘I know.’

  He turns to go. Then turns back.

  ‘Can you do a drink after work today?’

  ‘No, David is dropping off some boxes at the house. I said I would be in to collect them.’

  Joe looks miffed that I’m, I suppose on the face of it, putting my ex before him, but I’m not, I’ve just made an arrangement and am sticking to it. And a drink with Joe at this time, when he’s feeling this vulnerable is probably not a good thing. Vulnerability is very provocative in a man.

  He turns and leaves again. I feel as though I’ve flattened him with my h
onesty, but I think it’s for the best. I’ve tried to be as unconnected as possible, but it’s difficult because I like and fancy Joe now, and that makes it difficult. I have an emotional attachment and the more I get to know him, the more I like him and the more I’m inclined to let my feelings get in the way of better judgement. Like wanting to give him space. Because at this moment I feel I’m on the edge of wanting to get to know him and don’t want him to have space. Not from me anyway. And on top of that, all of that, I have compassion for Fiona. I know when he tells her, it may not come as a surprise, but it will be out in the open and when it’s out there—the words are out there—‘I want to separate, for good’—they hang there for days like a bad smell that won’t go away. They take on a force of all their own so that any word of kindness or reason is always stained by the truth of wanting to go separate ways. She doesn’t look hard or a bitch or arrogant or predatory. She looks nice. She looks gentle. She looks kind. Of course, if she knew what Joe and I almost did at the Pied Paella she would probably look very different—but this is understandable in the circumstances. Not that it would be easier if she looked nasty, but perhaps understandable why Joe doesn’t feel he is in love with her any more. Perhaps it’s just a transitory thing. Perhaps he’s just nervous of committing and wants a last fling before he ties the knot and I’m the one. The chosen one. But I’m not that sort of girl. I’m not the last fling girl. And I’m starting to think Doreen is right. I do fucking pick ’em.

  Chapter Eleven

  Boxing Up the Past

  Weak and controlling. I’ve decided the bulk of the male population are either one or both, but usually both. I don’t base my analysis on cynicism or clinical research (although they are causes cited for most divorce petitions these days), but more gut feeling. My personal experience is based on hard fact. It is based on observing the words and actions of men and seeing how they differ, in most cases dramatically because (and they will offer a variety of reasons for this but the fundamental truth is) they are ‘weak and/or controlling’. Okay, you say, gut feeling, what’s the use of gut feeling? Listen to it and I think you can’t go wrong. Women over forty that I’ve met have always told me they trust their gut feeling more rather than less as they age. Me, well, I ignored it over and over again at my cost. I don’t think I’m alone. I know I’m not alone. I witness women ignoring their gut feelings every day. Most women realise this feeling or instinct has more to do with common sense. More to do with nurturing a sense of reality and wisdom. And it leaves most women sad and wary of the opposite sex, because the one thing I hate to hear, actually any woman hates to hear, is the excuse ‘I was weak’. From anyone, but especially, especially, from their man.

  That’s the excuse David, ex of five years, partner for twenty-one years and official partner for eighteen years, gave me when he walked out. I would say, looking back, with a more objective eye, he was both weak and controlling. If that’s possible. At the time, I didn’t think it was. After all, if someone’s weak, how can they be controlling? How can a woman, a strong woman like me, be controlled by a man who’s weak? Agh, you see, there’s the rub. I loved him. I was weak. Now I’m using it. I’m using that excuse. I was weak. Two weak people together. Disaster. My cousin Helen didn’t think he was weak. She just thought he was a wanker. She would tell me, ‘Hazel, Hazel, you are a wanker magnet. Any wanker from a mile off will smell you out and want to make you his own. They see your energy and they think aha (I always imagined some Terry Thomas-cum-Brad Pitt-like creation swooping down on me in black cloak and whisking me off to his castle tower when she said this. Not always altogether totally unpleasant thought depending if I was feeling horny or not at the time). They think aha, I will take you as my own, sap all your strength, totally confuse you and wham bam, make you think all my guilt is your guilt, all my stuff is now your stuff, and what’s more, it’s your fault that I’m so weak and controlling. You bring it out in me. You bring the weakness out in me.’ And he said I brought out the worst in him. Yes, I would say, hand on heart, I definitely brought the very worst out in David.

  David was my Terry Thomas/Brad Pitt creature, although he had none of the humour of Terry nor sexual charisma of Brad Pitt. I liked him because I thought he was cute. Now I think about it, if I find a man cute, I am highly suspicious of my own motives, and focus on the wisdom of knowing I just want to sleep with them. Ideally without getting emotionally involved, which of course is impossible, because I’m a woman. I’m weak. See, there it is again. That ruddy word. I’m weak. Sorry, I hit her, I’m weak. Sorry, I married her, and didn’t love her, because I didn’t want to hurt her, I’m weak. Sorry, I slept with him, the passion, the sexual energy was overpowering, I’m weak. I don’t think I have met a strong person in all my working or personal life. Certainly not a man. My friends, Doreen, Valerie, Fran, even downtrodden Carron, I think they’re strong. But David, David who I stayed with, had a child with and divorced very acrimoniously but financially well, is probably the weakest, most controlling man I ever and have ever met. I would let him decide how long I would speak to people at parties (half an hour to any man was far too long) and he has this pet phrase, ‘call me old-fashioned’, which translates as I’m a control freak. I know it does, that’s not gut instinct, that’s based on personal as well as professional experience. All control freaks say it.

  I am meeting ‘call me old-fashioned’ David today, because he has found some of my old stuff (actual rather than emotional, I hope) and needs to deliver it to me. It’s too big and heavy to send through the post. I’ve suggested he bins it, but he thinks there may be things I would like to keep. Old photos. Of us. I think perhaps Sarah would like to keep them. I tore the wedding album up on the morning after he stayed out all night with his girlfriend and failed to turn up to counselling. I told Fran it felt good at the time. She said it probably did but that it was a shame for Sarah. I said the whole ceremony had been made a sham and its hypocrisy reeked through every frame. God, I was angry then. Bloody difficult to tear those books. They bind them well. I’m only sorry for the pages with photos of my dad, and mum, who I like to remember. Neither of them lived long enough to witness the breakup, which is for the best. I felt at the time, they were looking down on me, in my loneliness, sobbing silently inside, they wanted to take all the pain from me. My father would always tell me he wished he could take my pain, so I wouldn’t have to bear it. He couldn’t of course, but I know, every time he said it, he meant it. He would always say the right words. My mother on the other hand had a habit of biting her lip (literally, she would make it bleed sometimes, I think it was some sort of nervous disorder), but failed to bite her lip and speak when she shouldn’t. She wouldn’t engage brain before opening mouth. Ever. She would take on the sympathy rather than the pain. Think they call it transference, but whatever it was called, it pissed me off when she told me everyone felt sorry for her. Why should they feel sorry for her? So perhaps it was a good thing she wasn’t here to give advice during my time with David, because I would have probably topped myself on the basis of listening to her advice. Of course, I loved them both. Just I missed my dad so much more. So much more.

  David arrives at ten in his blue convertible 3 series BMW with electric roof. He is wearing a black jumper and black chinos and attitude. Both of us look so much more attractive since we split up, we both look at each other these days, and rather than think what did I ever see in them, think why didn’t they look that good when I went out with them. Of course, we answer ourselves. We didn’t look this good because we were both dreadfully unhappy. And it showed. And I can always tell when I walk down a street now and look at couples, their body language, those who are genuinely happy and those who just pretend to be. I would say, a good ninety-five percent on any street on London are as miserable as sin according to my analysis. But I may be wrong. Perhaps it’s just that gut feeling again.

  ‘Right, there’s two boxes. I think stuff that Sarah would like.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll put them
in the loft. See if she can find time to look through them, she’s so busy these days.’

  ‘Yes, well, college and all that (slight pause), how are you?’

  So simple that, isn’t it, being asked ‘how are you?’ I would love to say I’m really well, I’m happy, have a potential new man in my life, am dancing about with joy inside (not that he’d really care or want to know that bit) and am altogether the happiest I’ve been in a long time and am looking forward to turning forty. I don’t. I don’t say any of these things because I know, I’ve come to know, that David still harbours anger and resentment and bitterness and it comes out when he learns or hears anything about me that remotely resembles contentment. For a start, I pissed him off something rotten when I did better at work after we split up. Our last remaining mutual friends told me so. It also annoyed him when I started dating men who were not only taller (not hard—he scrapes five foot eleven though he lies about his height), more handsome (he chose someone who was physically less attractive than me), and stronger, as he couldn’t intimidate them when we met. In fact, the reverse used to happen. But I didn’t want to make David cross, because when he was cross (I prefer the word cross to angry, it’s somehow less dark), he got nasty. Not in a childish, stamp feet, bang head against table sort of way. He got nasty in a very calculated way. He possessed a book of all my faux pas over the years—from the most insignificant ‘didn’t cook pasta right’ to the more seminal ‘had an affair with a photographer’. I know he does, because when Sarah was fifteen, he showed it to her. She cried a lot, returned from that particular weekend and it was horrible for about a month, but when I spoke to her about the hows and whys, without damning her father (God I worked hard on my mantra ‘may he be happy may he be well’ that month), she said she understood that it must have been intolerable for both of us, and I said, yes it was, and that I still loved her father, and I never alas kept such a book about him. It would have been a library—but I didn’t tell her that bit.