The Younger Man

by Sarah Tucker

  He also used to gently suggest to Sarah every time he saw her that she would be happier living with him and his girlfriend than with me. He knew that the courts wouldn’t allow it, and so thought if he could work on her, that she would make the decision, but I always allowed Sarah to meet her dad when she wanted to, speak to him when she wanted to, and tried to be the best mother I could be, not only because I love Sarah, and wanted her to grow up happy and healthy and balanced, but because I knew David and his parents (bless their little Irish Catholic hypocritical socks) would fight for custody and use anything to prove I was an unfit mother. He once told me, very quietly after dropping Sarah off, and asking for a quick chat, he whispered, ‘You know, Hazel, I don’t wish you dead. I know you think I do, but I don’t. I wish you a long life, so I can see how miserable I can make you for the rest of your life. I take great pleasure from that knowledge’. He whispered this, and smiled at me, handed me a CD of Madame Butterfly with a Post-it attached saying think about it, and turned and went and I felt quite sick. I think I threw up. I couldn’t even cry that time. I didn’t tell anyone about it for a long time. I just put it in the back of my mind, binned the CD and tried to forget it. It came out when I spoke to Angie one time and she said over time the ‘wrong’ voices would disappear. Both my mother’s and David’s.

  But the thing that most annoyed David was that he couldn’t control me any more. Well, he could in some ways. With money he would delay payments so I had to contact everyone to let them know the payment would be delayed on that month’s instalment and he would always pay just before court proceedings were issued which meant unnecessary expense and worry which he again, always whispered to me, that he enjoyed. Then of course, he tried to get to me emotionally via Sarah, but I wasn’t one of his possessions any more and he regarded everything he, as he put it, ‘paid for’, as his possession. Of course, all his friends, who were our friends when we were together (but were all bankers so were ultimately neither of our friends) thought he was lovely. He has, I admit, many lovely ways, but they don’t make up for the dark side. He’s not so much Terry Thomas and Brad Pitt, more Darth Vader meets Uriah Heep. But to any layman on first meeting he comes across as so charming, so balanced, so sane, and he’s not. He’s a nutter and while I was married to him, I think he started to make me doubt my own sanity. So when this English Psycho asks me how I am, I say, ‘Fine.’

  And leave it at that. Not because I’m not friendly, or bitter, or afraid, or angry. Just because it’s the only safe thing to say to someone who’s this messed up and calculatedly malicious.

  Unfortunately, David wants to talk. I know this because he lingers when I want to close the door.

  ‘You’re turning forty this year, aren’t you?’

  What do I say to this? If I say yes, it’s too open. It allows him to say something else, but how can I close it. If I say no, it’s next year, he may have asked Sarah, and will put my memory loss down to insanity and note this in his book, using it as evidence that I’m an unfit mother (I’m not paranoid honestly, I know David would do this because he said he would three years ago if I ever forgot how old I was. Yes, really). If I say maybe, then it suggests it is something I would prefer to forget (I don’t) and so any comment would fall on deaf ears. So I say, ‘Maybe.’

  He looks amused.

  ‘Any man on the scene then?’

  I don’t have to think on this one. I know how he’ll react to any possibility of yes or maybe (more comments to Sarah, bringing up memories of separation bullying), so I’m hardly likely to talk about Joe, younger, taller, brighter, more handsome, (I hope) kinder.

  ‘No.’

  He smiles again. ‘Oh well, shit happens.’

  I say nothing. I don’t wish him well or say goodbye or anything that might be misinterpreted as conversation. I close the door quietly as he turns and think if Joe ever, but ever says to me ‘call me old-fashioned’ or ‘I’m weak’ I will run a mile.

  I leave the boxes in the hallway for a few hours before I decide to look through and see what the important stuff is that David thinks I should keep for Sarah. I make some tea, then coffee, play The Cure and Jim Morrison, and then pick up the first box and nest in front of the mock Adams-style fireplace and sift. When David and I split, I destroyed all of the photos of him and me together I could find. Those with him and Sarah I gave to him, and I have the ones of Sarah and me together. I do not have one single memento or photo or memory of David in the house. Apart from Sarah that is, which is the best thing we ever did for each other. I lie, I have a necklace with a single pearl, rubies and diamonds that David presented to me when I gave birth to Sarah. It’s exquisite and I keep it because I want to pass it on to Sarah one day. Not necessarily if and when she gets married, just one day. When I feel it’s appropriate.

  I don’t recognise myself in the photos I see before me. He must have taken some of me when he took those of Sarah and himself. I expect he threw darts at them but, inspecting them closely, I can’t see any pin marks. Perhaps he did the voodoo thing with the doll and strands of hair, but I’m still in one piece at the moment. So perhaps not. My hairstyle looks so weird. Tight and bobbed and heavily highlighted. More like a bad block colour of dandelion blond, but I have the same round face and smile. Although the smile looks forced. I don’t smile like that these days. The eyes in the photos are sad. The mouth smiles. The eyes are sad, or perhaps I just see something in them that isn’t there. Perhaps. And at least I don’t wear light blue eye makeup that many of my friends wore in those days. I’m wearing suits and ill-fitting blouses and no bra (because I didn’t think I needed one, but I did), and I look very uncomfortable. In all the photos it’s as though I’m not staring at myself from another time, it’s another person. I’m not this person any more. This is someone pretending to be me. A much weaker, insecure, vulnerable and unsure girl, who’s yet to form as a person. Not someone my friends or Joe would recognise. Not me. Not me at all.

  There are photos of drinks parties, and the time David dressed up with friends in black tie and dark glasses, a group of bankers called the Guinness Eight—although nine invariably turned up for the piss-up—and the girls all wore little black dresses and mine was particularly little because I was at the anorexic stage of our relationship when I didn’t want to feel anything—anger, passion, lack of it, resentment, sadness—and not eating helped. And I can barely recognise Hazel Chamberlayne in any of these photos either. It’s a bit like a scene from the Twilight Zone. Someone’s showing me photos of myself and I don’t recognise them. It’s a bit creepy. There are photos of our honeymoon. Must bin those. And the time we went to Disney World in the States. That was good. That was before we got married. I remember being very happy then. It wasn’t all bad—our relationship. Perhaps I should suggest Benson do a similar thing, although I think he’s ceremonially burnt all the images of Mrs Benson but perhaps in time, in ten years or twenty years’ time, he may think differently. Perhaps.

  Perhaps Sarah should keep these after all. I have some for Sarah already, but it’s unfair of me not to let her see them. So I don’t bin anything. I think if her dad wants her to have these, then I should let her sift through herself. But deep down, I hope she looks through and bins the lot—especially the ones of David grinning inanely at me, as if to say, you can’t escape, you can’t escape. I did darling, I did, thank goodness.

  When Sarah comes in I tell her about the boxes.

  ‘Oh, I’ll look when I’ve got time, Mum. I’d prefer to look together if that’s okay with you. Then we can decide what we want to keep and what we want to chuck.’

  ‘They’re for you, Sarah.’

  ‘I know, but, well, the memories weren’t good ones. They’re the past, and they should stay there.’

  ‘They weren’t all bad.’

  ‘I know they weren’t all bad, but I don’t need reminding of them. And neither do you. They’ll always be with you and Dad and one day, when I’m older I’ll look, but not yet. Keep them in the
loft and I’ll look at them one day. But not now. Are you planning anything for your birthday, Mum?’

  ‘Maybe going to EuroDisney with the girls, but apart from that, no.’

  ‘Right, okay, then, I’ll cook dinner for you on your birthday—just the two of us—okay?’ She beams with a twinkle in her eye.

  ‘That would be lovely.’

  As I put the boxes in the loft that evening, I think how I’ve dealt with my fears and pain and anger, and if I’ve just bottled it all up and put it in boxes which may explode at any time, like Benson. I don’t think so. I think I’ve dealt with my stuff okay. Perhaps I’ll explode on the day I turn forty as I’m told some women do. When all their past achievements and failures flash before their eyes and they think ‘what have I done?’. But climbing down from the loft, I’m pretty cool about everything. I’m not in denial about getting older, getting more wrinkles (which I see as character—why anyone wants Botox I don’t know. Who wants to go round looking like a startled rabbit all the time?) or getting any of those other physical ailments women over forty suffer from. I’ll take it in my stride, with grace and humour I hope, much as I do everything these days. I want to prepare an action list of things I want to do before my forty-first birthday though. Ten things that will stretch and challenge me. It’s strange, as I put all the memories, some good, some bad in the loft to be taken down who knows when, I feel less boxed in than ever. The little girl in the photos looked afraid of life and herself and her sexuality and her boyfriend, who later became her husband. Perhaps the old Hazel should stay in the box. This Hazel thinks out of it these days.

  Chapter Twelve

  Getting to Know Joe

  ‘I don’t need counselling!’ Benson screams at Joe.

  Mr Benson is screaming at Joe, who is managing to hold back the laughter or anger—can’t work out which emotion.

  Joe has just suggested Mr Benson might be helped if he went to see a counsellor for anger management.

  ‘Outbursts in court about the judge are not a good idea,’ Joe says calmly.

  ‘’The bloke was a fucking wanker,’ Benson replies, snorting like some enraged horse.

  ‘Telling him this is not a good idea,’ says Joe. ‘I am sure even you realise this, Mr Benson.’

  ‘I realise this, but honestly, the decision to investigate further into my affairs—is that really necessary? Can’t you stop them from doing this?’

  ‘No,’ replies Joe.

  ‘I’ve managed to hide—’

  I interrupt Benson. I don’t want him to tell us something that prejudices his case. ‘May I remind you, Mr Benson, anything you tell us we are obliged to reveal to the court and Mrs Benson’s solicitors. So please keep this in mind when you are telling us anything.’

  ‘Oh right. Right.’

  He stops shouting and thinks for a bit. Smiles and sits down.

  Benson ponders. ‘So you think counselling would help me?’

  ‘I think so,’ says Joe. ‘It’s helped many of our clients.’

  ‘And she can’t say I’m nuts because I’m going to a counsellor?’ Benson asks more calmly.

  ‘On the contrary, Mr Benson, it shows you are a responsible human being and furthermore, responsible father.’

  ‘Right.’

  He thinks again. Head in hands. ‘Right, so do you recommend anyone?’

  ‘We have a list of qualified counsellors we can recommend,’ I say. ‘I think you will find they will be very helpful. Not only with your anger, but also other anxieties you may have. Anger may only be the symptom of issues, not the cause.’

  ‘That fucking bitch was the cause of my anxieties. Is the cause of my anxieties. I can tell you that. I don’t need a fucking counsellor to tell me that.’

  ‘Here is a list. I have starred those ones I think most appropriate. We don’t have another court appearance for at least another six weeks, so I suggest you organise an initial meeting and see if you can see them on a regular basis. About two times a week possibly.’

  ‘Will it cost a fortune?’

  ‘It may end up saving you a lot of money if you are able to control yourself in court, Mr Benson,’ I say, offering him a cup of water as he’s demolished the previous one.

  Mr Benson calms down. He stands and shakes hands with both of us, then leaves the meeting room muttering, ‘Kill Gill, Kill Gill, Kill Gill.’ Obviously, his wife’s first name.

  I return to my office and close the door. And smile at Joe, who is smiling back at me. We haven’t been able to talk about anything personal since we spoke in this office last week. I don’t know if he’s moved out of the house, or she’s moved out of the house, or they’re back together again or what. So I ask, ‘How are you?’

  ‘Okayish,’ he says, slumping down into my chair. ‘We’ve had lots of talks. She’s stronger than I thought she was. She’s agreed to move out rather than me, which I feel bad about. She says she loves me and wants me back the way I was when we first met.’

  I smile. I remember saying those words to David all those years ago.

  ‘I think she feels let down. She knows it hasn’t been right for some time. I tried to break it up last year, but there were so many tears I thought I would try to make it work, but it hasn’t been right. And then I met you.’

  ‘So I’m a catalyst. But you’re not leaving her for me, are you? This puts an emotional burden on me that I don’t need or want.’

  ‘No, I was unhappy in my relationship, but you do have something to do with my actions. Why I’m doing it now.’

  ‘Does she suspect you like me?’

  ‘She hasn’t asked any more about you. She said when she met you that you’d be the sort of woman I’d go for.’

  I smile. ‘What sort of woman is that?’

  ‘You fishing for compliments, Ms Chamberlayne? She was very sweet about you, Hazel, which only made it worse. We have history—twelve years of it and a lot of it has been good.’

  ‘Then why don’t you try to make a go of it, Joe? Do you still love her?’

  ‘Yes, I do, but I’m not in love with her and I can’t change the way I feel. And it’s not just because of you, it’s been there a long time. I have tried to fall in love with her again, but it didn’t work. And I thought I was being kind by staying, but I’m not. I went to a wedding last month. Her best friend was getting married in Devon. And it just polarised the whole issue. The fact I was so unhappy. Am so unhappy. I wanted to text you or call you from the reception and I’d just met you. Think I’d been here a week and I thought, hey, if I ring you, you’ll think I’m nuts. And now, I’m excited about you. About, well, the possibility of us.’

  ‘I understand. And I understand about the history. At least you can make a new history for yourself, and so can she. You don’t have children, so you can give each other space and there isn’t a constant reminder of the good and bad times beaming away at you each day, like I had with Sarah. You see, I understand how Fiona feels. I was her once. I understand her feelings of betrayal and loss and bereavement. If she genuinely felt you’d left her for another woman, she’d feel angry and you might see a different side to her. So to save her pride and your reputation—I’m sure you don’t want to be perceived by mutual friends as having gone from one relationship straight to another—I suggest you spend time by yourself for a few months.’

  ‘Or keep our relationship a secret.’

  ‘It doesn’t work that way, Joe. And with all due respect, I don’t want to be a secret. She will find out, and you need time by yourself. It will give you time to deal with your baggage, rather than, well, offloading onto me or whoever happens to come along.’

  ‘It’s going to be difficult.’

  ‘I know. We work together. We see each other every day. We’re going to New York together soon. We should both try to be professional. No kissing, no sex, no guilt.’

  ‘I feel guilty and I haven’t done anything. I haven’t even kissed you.’

  ‘But you’ve thought about it and that�
�s why you’re feeling guilty. Not Catholic, are you?’

  ‘No, just human.’

  He smiles and leaves me wondering how professional and restrained I can be with him in the office, and allow him the space he needs now. Perhaps for New York I should leave the La Perla at home, after all.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Of Mice and Men

  Sheryl Crowe’s all-time greatest single girl’s anthem blares from my personal CD player. Music conjures up moments in my life like nothing else. ‘Oh Come All Ye Faithful’ was playing outside my hospital room as I gave birth to Sarah. ‘Nobody Does it Better’ by Carly Simon, theme tune to The Spy Who Loved Me, when David proposed and ‘I Hate You So Much Right Now’ by I can’t remember who, though she did sound very annoyed, was my theme tune for a few years after we got divorced. Sheryl’s tune reminds me of a lover from my past. A particularly wonderful one. Of furtive fumblings in the passenger seat of his car as he drove me home, trying to concentrate on an endless road, but occasionally catching sight of my teasing lit by the moonlight and occasional street lamps. Of that sick lustful yearning. That feeling I now have for Joe. Joe, bless him, has Billy Joel’s ‘New York State of Mind.’ No matter. I’m sure it will pass.

  The five of us are on a train going to EuroDisney for the day. No men. Just the girls with over twenty-four hours of chat inside them. We are hoping Valerie doesn’t give birth but if it’s going to be born, there are worse places than EuroDisney. Perhaps she’ll call it Daisy or Minnie. Valerie scowls at the thought and tells us politely to fuck off. We’ve decided to stay the night in the Disneyland Hotel, onsite, so we get to go in an hour before the park opens to the plebs. The girls all want a fluffy Mickey Mouse, except me, who’s always felt Donald got a really bad press and needed love. So I’m buying one of him and a Daisy for Joe. Now isn’t that naff.