The Younger Man

by Sarah Tucker

  I ache and yearn for Joe, but I’m sure it will pass. It’s like a shadow hanging over me that I may have made a mistake when he asked me to marry him. I want to be with him though I don’t want to marry. And he’s obviously hurt. He may have even returned to Fiona who would love to marry him and have his babies. It’s done now. And can’t be undone.

  I miss Joe’s sense of humour. His dry wit. His energy. His love of life. I thought I’d just miss his smell, the sensuality of us making love, as we did in New York, but it’s more than that. We waited or seemed to wait an eternity to get it together and it’s made the bond stronger between us and I keep thinking I’ve made the wrong move. By saying ‘no.’

  I tell Fran one night, on the mobile, while sitting in my new home, drinking a bottle of Chianti.

  ‘Have you called him?’

  ‘No. I think I hurt him and, well, saying no to someone who proposes, and that was a big thing for him, he’s probably back with Fiona now—with ring and wedding arrangements no doubt.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘I don’t know. Brian says he’s doing well at the partnership and has lots of women after him, but he doesn’t seem to have anyone serious at the moment.’

  ‘Do you regret saying no to him?’

  I lie.

  ‘No, it was the right decision for me at this moment in time. I’m not ready to get married again, not in a conventional means anyway. Perhaps to a bohemian man who loves to paint and can earn and still make me laugh? Perhaps then I can be with someone, but I don’t want a husband, I just want a partner, a companion, a lover. I’m more interested in quality of life now than stuff. My first forty years were full of getting stuff, accumulation of stuff, stuff I needed and stuff I didn’t. And getting power. Power I needed and power I didn’t. And now, I’ve got everything I want in a material sense and just want my friends around me, to be chilled and happy and—’

  ‘And write your book.’

  ‘Yep, may write the book, but everything’s been quite straightforward. Thought it would be more difficult than this. Even learning the language has fallen into place. Everyone’s been friendly and, well, it’s been good, as though it was meant to be.’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘I think so, too.’

  ‘Anything missing.’

  ‘As I said, I miss Joe. I miss his cuddles and kissing and conversation and texting and phone calls and his smell and touch.’

  ‘And lovemaking?’

  ‘That’s part of it, not all of it. I also miss the closeness.’

  ‘Do you miss Sarah?’

  ‘I get her on the phone every day, Fran. She misses me more than she thought. She still needs her mummy.’

  ‘We all need our mummy, Hazel.’

  ‘I know.’ (I think about how my parents would have loved the house.) ‘You’re coming and then Valerie with Harry and Nelly and Carron with her man, and Brian says he’s flying over on business and will pop in probably with Jennifer. So it’s going to be a full house this autumn. Autumn in Tuscany. Perhaps I’ll call my book that.’

  ‘Too naff. Probably one out there already.’

  ‘Okay, okay, it’s early days. I haven’t written first word yet.’

  Fran, aware as ever that I miss him despite my attempts to digress, changes the subject back to Joe.

  ‘But you’d like to see Joe?’

  ‘Of course I would.’

  ‘Why haven’t you called him?’

  ‘Because he would have called me, if he wanted to speak to me.’

  ‘Perhaps he thinks you would have called him, if you wanted to speak to him. Plus, you’re not prepared to admit you may have been wrong. Call him to find out if he’s still hurt.’

  ‘You think that’s a good idea?’

  ‘No harm in trying.’

  I click off to Fran and click on to Joe.

  Four rings and no answer. It will go onto answer machine soon.

  ‘Hello.’

  I wait, thinking it’s the voice mail.

  ‘Hello, Joe Ryan speaking.’

  It’s not.

  ‘Hello, it’s Hazel. How are you?’

  Silence then, ‘I’m fine. Good to hear from you. Hear you’ve settled into a villa in Tuscany. How is everything?’

  ‘Fine. Good. It’s beautiful here.’

  ‘I’m sure it is. Chancery Lane looks pretty cute today as well.’

  ‘I’m sure it does.’

  Silence again.

  ‘How are you?’ I ask again.

  I want to say so much more. I want to tell him I miss him and I love him and I’ve been thinking about him every second of every moment of every day, and that it’s wonderful here and I would love him to come and visit and bring Sheila and Norman because they would love it. And I want to tell him I want to go to Verona, take him to Verona and make love in the olive grove and possibly even in my one. But I don’t. I just ask how he is for a third time.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he repeats.

  I wonder if he wants to say a lot more, too. If he wants to say that he still loves me and wants me and thinks about me and wants me lying next to him and stroking him and gently kissing him, like he used to. And if he still wishes he had followed me and pursued me. I wonder. I wonder if he’s grown younger in his outlook and I’ve matured. I wonder if we could meet in the middle somewhere. If we could both lose some pride and reach each other.

  ‘I might be coming over to Italy in a few weeks. One of the clients is Italian, and I’ve got to fly into Rome.’

  ‘Why don’t you pop in?’

  It’s about six hours’ drive from Rome, but he doesn’t know that.

  ‘Hazel, it’s about six hours’ drive from Rome.’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘I looked into it, Hazel. I thought about visiting you but it’s too far. And, well, I can’t go that extra mile.’

  ‘No, I appreciate that.’ (We both realise we’re talking about something else completely.) ‘Well, thank you for thinking about it anyway.’(I want to change the subject.) ‘How are your mum and dad?’

  ‘Very well, thank you. They ask after you. They thought you were lovely. I told them I proposed and told them what happened. They thought I should follow my instinct.’

  ‘You obviously didn’t.’

  ‘I have started to trust it more, perhaps I’m growing up.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Anyway, I understand why you said no. You don’t want to feel tied down again. You’ve done the marriage and having children and divorce thing and don’t want to do that again. I understand that. I don’t want to clip your wings. I would never do that. But I know myself and I do want to get married, Hazel. I want the fairy tale that most women want but I want it with a woman who doesn’t. That’s the irony.’

  ‘Perhaps you want it because she doesn’t.’

  ‘No, I like the idea of spending my time with you. I like that idea.’

  ‘You don’t have to be married to do that, you know. You don’t have to have the certificate to secure my commitment. As you know, the certificate is only a contract should anything go wrong. A backup clause, something to protect both correspondents. It makes sense, but I don’t want that now, because I know how I feel and God knows how I feel, and you know how I feel and that’s enough for me. Those who bear witness in the church, those friends and family, invariably lose contact or let you down. You don’t need to get married.’

  ‘How about children?’

  ‘How about them?’

  ‘There’s still that stigma of children being born out of wedlock.’

  ‘Like most things that will change over time. Like most things it may take longer but it will change.’ (I pause and take a breath.) ‘Look, I’m not saying I won’t get married, I’m just saying not now. I want my time; me time, but I’d like to share it with you, on my terms.’

  ‘So no compromises?’

  ‘Not if the compromise means getting m
arried and coming back to the UK. No. That’s not compromising, that’s giving in. And I don’t do that anymore.’

  He pauses, then says, ‘Strange it’s the man who wants the fairy tale and not the woman.’

  It’s funny listening to a man saying that phrase, ‘I want the fairy tale.’ I don’t want that anymore. I did when I was in my twenties and thirties. But ultimately I was trapped and limited by a fairy tale that wasn’t my idea of ideal. But not now. I want to live life to the full, to live the dream, to make it a reality. A part of my reality, which is now in La Marquee, I’ve made real for myself. And Joe can choose to be a part of it if he wants to. But the fairy tale, that particular one, I don’t want anymore. Actually, I’m not sure I ever did.

  ‘Take care and God bless, Joe.’

  ‘You too, Hazel.’

  I put the phone down, feeling so very sad and empty, as though I’ve drunk too much coffee and nothing else for days. I feel stronger because I’ve explained myself, and if Joe wants to be with me, he’ll find a way. I want him to prove himself to me by accepting me on my terms. Just for once. This once. And if not, well, shit happens.

  To be honest, I’m desperately wanting him to read my mind and translate me like Fran does. I don’t think that film with Mel Gibson got it right. Women aren’t that simple. Relationships aren’t that simple. They’re complex. That was how men thought women thought, not how women actually think, which I don’t think would make a good film. Or not a film that would be understandable. Or translatable to a male audience, anyway.

  But I’d like Joe to translate me like Fran does. Probably because Fran would listen to me and tell me I love Joe and want him here. That I want him to share the dream I’ve realised, I’ve tick boxed, which I know he would love. But hey, I wanted to say more and didn’t. Yes, I know what I’ve done is best for me, what I think is best for me, and know that if it’s meant to be with Joe, it will happen. And everything happens for a reason. And perhaps I’ll meet someone else. A handsome Italian stallion. And I don’t want to put pressure on Joe. I want him to make the choice. Of his own free will. I want him to want me enough. To really, really want me enough to get on a plane and be there for me, with me. And at the moment, he doesn’t, but that’s okay.

  I sit in my porch trying to type the first pages of my book, which I’m thinking of calling How to Handle Hazel, and dedicating to Sarah and the memory of Doreen. I’m having writer’s block. I can’t work out how the hero handles Hazel, because despite having forty years of being me, being Hazel, I admit that I’m still not sure how to do it myself. I know I’m happy with me, just need to find someone who is as well. Or put myself in a position where they find me. Whatever. I’m too busy living to worry. I think a mixture of passion and kindness and humour mixed in with compassion might go down well, but perhaps not. My life doesn’t seem to be black and white these days. Plans go awry and all my friends are not where they thought they would be a year ago—even those who had planned every last detail, including Fran and Doreen. Perhaps you have to get to forty to realise it’s useless to plan. You just need guidelines, and being happy with yourself is the most important guideline you can define. I’m cool with that. My life is not grey, it’s a different hue. A different, brighter, unexpected colour.

  I’ve brought about thirty books with me, many of them Booker Prize and Orange Prize book winners that I bought at Gatwick Airport to distract me for the few months I’m here. My book may not be as good as any of them, but I don’t care. I’m going to make it happen. It’s going to be a work of fiction, based on a woman finding life and love in the Italian countryside. Okay, okay, I know it’s been done before, but mine’s going to be different, sassier, sexier and more three-dimensional. There will probably be a divorce in it somewhere, and maybe some phone sex, but we’ll see. Only page one so far. So with laptop turned on I look out over the olive grove in my garden, my beautiful garden, losing myself in the warmth and the smell of fresh basil that I’ve just picked for the mozzarella and tomato salad I’m having later.

  I sleep restlessly that night, but early in the morning, about six o’clock, I’m woken by a noise outside the house. Perhaps Fiona has sought me out in Tuscany. I wouldn’t blame her, although I did allow him time and space to think. As much as you can when you work with someone.

  I open the door and see Joe standing there, looking rather dishevelled but smiling softly at me. I want to cry. But I don’t.

  He walks toward me and strokes my hair and says, ‘I thought I could give you some ideas to start your book.’

  ‘So you got on a plane.’

  ‘Yes, always best to communicate face-to-face, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘What do you think of this?’

  He picks me up in his arms and walks me to the bedroom, occasionally kissing me and talking as he does so.

  ‘Hot Italian countryside. Our hero, still sweating from another day debating the sort of case that would make the hardest of QCs weep, takes a break. Walking into his bare but charming room, he struggles to take his shirt off, still wet from the day in court—beads of perspiration clinging to his back. Lying on his bed, the cool white sheets give a moment’s pleasure till his heat dampens them. The shutters are open, and he can hear a shower start in the room next door.’

  He lays me on the bed and starts to undress me.

  ‘It’s her, but did he imagine it? Yes, he asked her over to look at the paperwork, yes, it was a masterpiece of appraisal but how she did gasp, and linger by his side, and maybe for a moment it felt like she was breathing him in. Yes, his smell was a mixture of sweat, aftershave and heat—but hers, well, hers was like sex, a powerful mix of tropical forest, the warmth you feel on a hot beach and that perfect delicious smell of, well, of her. He then realised his descriptions were…’

  And starts to stroke me, very slowly up and down my body. ‘Crap.’

  I giggle. He continues to stroke and talk.

  ‘But that didn’t matter. She’s in the shower, water running through her hair, down her back, what he would give to…’

  He leans over to kiss me between the legs.

  ‘It had been too long. Our hero, exhausted by the heat and the sound of flowing water could bear it no longer.’

  He slowly undoes his shirt and leans over me again.

  ‘He must find out if she wanted him. Perhaps when their hands touched on the dance floor, in the office, over the coffee it was a mistake. He enters her room, she’s still in the shower, is facing him now, naked but not shy—he wants her. She is stunning.

  ‘Where’s your shower?’ he asks matter-of-factly.

  ‘Over there.’ I smile.

  He leads me toward the bathroom, turning the water on roughly so that it spurts out cold everywhere, making us laugh.

  ‘It’s supposed to gently trickle. Gently trickle, not cascade frigid water. It’s supposed to gently trickle down her body, her hands guiding its flow between her legs.’

  We stand. His arms are around me, he’s watching me and watching the water as it gradually warms and I enter, taking the soap and doing as he says.

  ‘He is lost in her. No longer able to control himself. But fully aware of why he’s doing what he is, he can’t resist her any more. He wants her. He needs her. To be with her. And then she realises. And admits. That she needs him, too.

  ‘How does that sound?’ he asks, joining me in the shower, kissing me very gently on my closing eyelids and then on my cheeks and on my lips.

  ‘Wouldn’t happen in real life,’ I say. ‘Wouldn’t happen in real life.’

  THE YOUNGER MAN

  A Red Dress Ink novel

  ISBN: 978-1-4592-4866-3

  © 2005 by Sarah Tucker.

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  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents and places are the products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real. While the author was inspired in part by actual events, none of the characters in the book is based on an actual person. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

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