Authors: Sarah Tucker
W
e’ve interviewed four candidates who have to replace the irreplaceable Jennifer, who has left to have her second baby and will probably never return. She says she will, but she won’t.
Last week she did leave, teary-eyed, arms full of flowers and baby gifts, waddling out the door to an awaiting taxi. Not only was Jennifer good at her job, she was good with me. She anticipated my needs and delivered before I could ask. She knew how to handle both her own PMT and mine. She knew when to speak, and more importantly when not to. I cried more than she did when she left. And now, I had to try to find another PA all over again, who would time manage my movements, but now, I have to share her with a man. I don’t like that. Only-child syndrome, I know, but I don’t like to share, especially PAs.
Especially with someone as, well, as charismatic as Joe Ryan. He may monopolise her. Perhaps we should get a male PA. Or better still he should get his own PA. But Joe Ryan doesn’t want a male PA, he tells me. He tells me he wants someone pretty and young. I think he’s joking.
So here I am, sitting in slightly messy office with Joe Ryan. We’re arguing, no debating, well, debating very heatedly, who we should choose. They’re all under thirty, two boys and two girls. All aesthetically appealing, all qualified up to their armpits and all hungry to work with us. We don’t agree.
‘A man. I would prefer a man. They’ll be efficient and we won’t have this baby problem again.’
I realise I’m arguing against my own sex here, but I don’t want either of the two girls. Both of whom are very good-looking and very smart. And both of whom barely managed to hide the thunderbolt effect Joe Ryan seems to have on the female sex. Something he is obviously used to. So I don’t want to hire them.
‘That’s being sexist against your own sex, Hazel. And Jennifer was superb. You said so yourself.’
‘I know, but this is less likely to happen with a man. Plus, I think the two girls liked you.’
‘I could use the same argument about the men.’
Yes, he could use the same argument about the men. Because I could sense they did, ‘like me’(blushing, not able to hold eye contact with me but okay with Joe. When they were able to hold eye contact, pupils becoming dilated. Quite sweet really, plus annoyed shit out of Joe, so
doubly good), but I’m sure, seeing me every day they’d get over the schoolboy crush. I will probably get over the silly thing I have with Joe. Not that it is anything. I just don’t want it to get out of hand.
‘Men will leave for other reasons. They will be ambitious, they will want to move on.’
‘Well, how about we hire someone in their forties or fifties, a female, who won’t be attracted to either of us and just be good at her job, happy with it, and has done the kids, marriage, divorce and remarriage thing.’
‘Good idea. Why didn’t I think of that?’
‘You wanted someone younger. And younger isn’t necessarily better.’
Perhaps the forty thing is getting to me. I’ve never felt anything resembling jealousy toward younger women. All I remember when I was younger was being more insecure, more self-conscious, self-aware, more self-critical and more blindly ambitious than I am now. I’m more settled, kinder to myself and with other people, but I smarted at the hint of him wanting someone young. It genuinely annoyed me. And I’m annoyed I’m annoyed.
Joe smiles at me. I know he’s going to say something clever. Or something he thinks is clever.
‘So we’re decided. Ask the agency to find us a woman in her late forties, with the right qualifications…(and smiling) and preferably plain.’
I smile. ‘But not too plain. We don’t want her to scare the clients, Joe.’
Brief pause then.
‘Brian tells me it’s a big birthday for you this year.’
I’m taken back. That’s too personal for this sort of professional relationship. I’m still annoyed he was hired in the first place. And annoyed with Brian that he’s told Joe about my age. Wonder if Joe’s asked about me, or Brian offered the information.
Quickly regaining composure I say, ‘He did, did he? Yes, I’m forty this year.’
Joe looks shocked. ‘God, I thought you were ten years younger.’
I look at him. Out-and-out flirting, that was. Can’t detect signs of sycophancy or mock horror, but perhaps he’s a good actor. Perhaps he’s expecting me to say I’m as old as the person I sleep with. I don’t. I ignore and continue the game.
‘Combination of good diet, good lifestyle, good genes, exercise and enjoying my work, probably.’
‘Whatever. You look more my age than yours. You look a good twenty-nine.’
So he is twenty-nine. He looks older than his years and certainly speaks with an authority of a man older than twenty-nine. He seems well travelled and has a wider perspective which makes his understanding of what is relative so much more interesting—and useful—especially in this job. I’m surprised. I must look surprised because he says, ‘You’re surprised. Yes, everyone thinks I’m older than I am. But it helps in business and dealing with clients—you know, the credibility factor.’
‘Quite. So we’ve agreed on hiring an older PA, but not too physically challenged.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I’ll get on to it.’
I’m meeting Fran for lunch today, so perhaps I can pop into the employment agency on the way there. Four months to go till the wedding, and barring the thumb twiddling and last-minute doubts, everything’s in place.
The Caffé Nero at the corner of Chancery Lane is crowded with suits. I think they’re journalists in here today so there must be a big case on nearby. Two celebrities divorcing each other allegedly acrimoniously. I hear rumours from the two solicitors concerned it’s not acrimonious at all, but the papers need to write something. And if it isn’t, it soon will be.
I manage to zoom in on two stools by the window, sending a hack flying, and hold the seats hostage while Fran queues for tea and cake—getting two for us each in case we feel peckish and don’t want to queue again.
‘Everything is going very well, Hazel. I’ve tried to foresee all possible dilemmas, including friction within our respective families. Table plans have been worked out with political precision. All dietary requirements have been catered for. All invites have been responded to. All I now need is for the sun to shine on the day, and that would be nice. Not absolutely necessary, but nice.’
Fran looks contented and I’m pleased, very pleased for my friend. She’s turning forty and getting married for the first time, and despite having heard some—although not
the worst—of my client horror stories, she is 120% positive she’s doing the right thing, to the right man at the right time. She doesn’t want to live in sin. She doesn’t want to have a child out of wedlock. Not because her parents wouldn’t approve or Daniel’s parents wouldn’t approve, but because, well, she wants to get married. Not because of the dress, or ceremony, or friends being there, or being called Mrs Daniel Carlyle. Just because, well, she instinctively knows it’s right.
‘I know it’s right, Hazel. Right time, right place, right man. I’m sure you hear that from your clients all the time. But I’m nearly forty, and I’ve learnt a lot, and think, hey, I’ve got experience and realism on my side and I haven’t lost the romance.’
‘How do you feel about turning forty?’ I ask.
‘Don’t feel anything really. I know it’s supposed to be the seminal year, but I’ve done so much in those decades, learnt a lot, loved a lot, and just feel this is a new chapter of the same book that I’m happy to be writing. So how’s things going with you?’
I tell Fran about Joe. She doesn’t interrupt.
He’s worked in the offices for three weeks now. I’ve tried to find out about him, not the superficial him on his CV, the personal life him, without being too obvious. Don’t think he has a partner because he doesn’t seem to take or make any phone calls, but perhaps he uses his mobile all the time. And I’m not going to ask him directly. He wears a light but potent aftershave. Could be Eternity. Not sure. Don’t know him that well yet, and hasn’t got
naturally into conversation. Not something that you’d just drop into one, you know, ‘and by the way, what is that aftershave you’re wearing, Joe?…’” He’d know immediately that I like him and I’m not giving him the gratification of thinking that. Our relationship is and should remain purely professional. Definitely. I’ve had lunch with him a few times, with and without clients. He likes vodka and tonics, champagne, teriyaki and authentic Italian restaurants. His taste in music is eclectic. He likes Led Zeppelin, Maroon 5, Pink Floyd, the Black Crowes and The Darkness, so obviously has some taste. He likes occasionally to eat with his fingers, which I quite like actually. I find it very sexy. I do it, too. He plays tennis, squash and badminton, and talks with knowledge and enthusiasm about the games, which reminds me a bit of my dad, who played all the sports till he was sixty. They’re all individual sports, so perhaps he’s not a team player. Perhaps he doesn’t like sharing either. He’s got two brothers. He’s the middle. I like that. Middle brothers are always the most interesting. More challenging, more black-sheeplike. Eldest are invariably the most successful, most dull, most arrogant, emotionally immature and invariably unhappy for most of their lives (having been out with several eldest children and having married and divorced one, I recognise the trait). Younger brothers are spoilt and have their own chips to bear. Middle ones are fighters, manipulators, mavericks.
And Joe Ryan strikes me as a maverick. Out of court anyway. He’s quite conventional with the clients, but
there’s something about Joe Ryan that I haven’t quite got my finger on. And that’s what’s bugging me. Annoying me. Intriguing me. Okay, I admit it, exciting me. He doesn’t flirt with me at all, but had mentioned I looked ten years younger than I am.
Fran smiles.
‘You can draw breath now, Hazel. First and foremost, with regards to your age, you do look ten years younger. That wasn’t false flattery. That was genuine reaction. I like the sound of him. He seems ambitious, interesting. Kind. And I like his name. Joe Ryan. Got a ring to it.’
‘Hitler has a ring to it. So does Mussolini.’
‘Do you fancy him?’
‘He bothers and interests me. And there’s that za za zoom. You know, breathlessness. Which is annoying because I’m in my work environment and it’s not the right place to be feeling breathless. I need to be focused, not wet.’
Fran thinks the ugly PA idea is a good one, in light of my ambivalence (not) to Joe Ryan. I also tell her the CV details. The fact that he lives in Barnes, got a first in Law in Oxford and would like a Labrador, but it’s impractical in London.
Fran sips her tea, absorbing everything I say by osmosis. She doesn’t speak for a few sips and then says, ‘So you don’t think he has a girlfriend?’
‘What do I care?’
‘You care. Does he have a girlfriend?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘Could work. I mean you could have a relationship.’
‘Fran, don’t be silly. It’s wrong to mix business with pleasure, plus he’s too young for me. And I told you, he bothers me just by being there. By being a partner. Plus, he’s more suited to Sarah’s age than mine.’
Fran is silent again, looking at my face and smiles. I feel like the teacher in
Village of the Damned
when the white-haired starey-eyed children were trying to read his mind and he kept thinking of a brick wall (had to be there—it was a good film). No I’m not thinking about sleeping with him. No I’m not thinking about sleeping with him. This seems to work.
‘Well, agree with the business and pleasure. That’s not a good idea if you can’t separate the two. But if you’re mature about it, fine. As for the age thing, I don’t think that makes a difference. I’ve invariably found men and women get on better when they are from different generations. Every generation matures more quickly than the last. So older women and younger men are usually more compatible than men and women of the same age. If any are going to work, it should be this one.’
I think about what Fran says as I slowly make my way back to the office. Could I go out with a man ten years my junior? Could I show my turning-forty body to a turning-thirty male? It’s not sagging. There are no stretch marks. It’s well toned. Even lightly tanned. I’m also not afraid to make love with the lights on. But this is fanciful rubbish. Rubbish, rubbish, rubbish. He’s a work colleague, ten years my junior, ever so slightly arrogant, driven and
has that tunnel vision thing—albeit cute, and probably doesn’t like me much anyway and views me more as someone who will help him on his career path or as a barrier, unless he gets me on side. Simple as that. Or perhaps that’s how he operates. The cool and calculated seducer who uses his sexuality to get ahead. Just like many a female. Could or would he go out with someone with a teenage daughter who would probably think he was a bit of all right as well? What happens if Sarah fancied him? That’s odd. That makes me feel very odd. My daughter and I vying for the same man. Oh, this is nonsense. My mind is going off at ridiculous tangents. You work with the guy—that’s it. That’s how you should keep it.
Don’t go there, Hazel. Not worth it. Keep it professional. Keep it simple. Keep it cool. And keep looking for a suitable PA.
I
t’s Friday night and I’m sitting in my sitting room alone with my family size pack of Minstrels, glass of South African Chardonnay as recommended by Waitrose, watching
Pride and Prejudice
on TV. Sarah is out at the cinema watching something rated PG, with her school friends Hermione and Octavia (am I the only unpretentious mother at her school?). I’m trying to get lost in the romance of the story, but my instinct keeps telling me Darcy is nothing more than a poor girl’s wet dream and Elizabeth Bennet would spend the rest of her life, post credits, rolling in domestic misery, undervalued, emotionally bullied and sexually repressed.
I’m cross. Perhaps it’s because I’m in on a Friday night, my period is due, and the forty-minute run at 11.5 on the treadmill, one forty-five-minute spinning class and ten
minutes on the cross trainer, hasn’t managed to burn off the sexual frustration—which I think my irritability stems from. Perhaps. Or perhaps it stems from the fact my builder hasn’t turned up to redo the floor in my sitting room. The fact the plumber hasn’t turned up to fix the downstairs shower that spurts water over the rest of the room every time I turn it on. The fact my gardener, James Huxley, didn’t smile at me as he usually does. Perhaps he’s premenstrual, too. Or the fact Joe didn’t come back from court today and we were going to go for a drink after work to chat about the new PA’s workload (Marion Harper, fifty-five, married with three grown children and no visible signs of sexuality) and the hearing ran late and he couldn’t and didn’t get back in time. Of course, these are all men letting me down. And they’re all things that I could do myself, but chose not to. Perhaps I should find a female builder and plumber and gardener who would be more reliable. I can’t help but think to myself that men are simple, self-involved creatures. But then, who’s being self-involved now? Here I am, feeling utterly indulgent, self-pitying and pathetic on a Friday night.
‘Oh, Hazel. Not all men are shallow,’ I can hear Fran whisper in my ear.
As I watch Elizabeth Bennet swoon at Darcy emerging from what looks like an ornamental lake, I know this is all bullshit. And I wonder how men and women manage to communicate at all. It’s not that men think differently to women. It’s that they think on different levels and
at a different pace. Men don’t care that they can’t emote as deeply as women. It’s not just that they can’t feel as deeply as women, it’s the fact they don’t care that they can’t. And that’s the crux of the matter. Women think that the men care that they’ve got this emotional shortfall. Men don’t, in my experience, give a fuck.
And I do. I do give a fuck, and fall in love, probably too easily. Three years ago, before Dominic, I fell in love with Harry, who owned a boat and a horse and a house in Vancouver, but also failed to tell me he had a wife in France and a mistress in New York amongst his possessions. Before that, I almost went out with Steve, but he insisted on seeing his ex-girlfriend on Saturday nights to celebrate that they’d been going out for two years. When I told him this was taking the piss, he said it was just bad timing the anniversary was a Saturday night and said that I was lucky to be with him because he could have fifteen other women if he wanted them. So I’ve had only a few men in my life since divorcing David. And of course, I’ve healed from that as well. Eventually. I suppose being a divorce lawyer didn’t help my attitude toward him, anticipating he would be as manipulative and deceitful during the separation as he proved to be during the marriage, and seeing him match and occasionally exceed even my lowly expectations. Having Sarah meant it would take longer to get over the anger and sadness as we had to stay in touch and meet each other every other weekend for her sake. The being in touch was something neither of us wanted. And now, well, now Sarah was going to college and the
contact wouldn’t be as often or as necessary. Sarah could make her own way to his apartment in the Barbican where he kept his possessions—the BMW 3 series convertible (according to most of my male friends, wankers drive these cars, so am reassured by this), the state-of-the-art phone (as used by Uma Thurman in
Kill Bill 2
), TV (with a screen that moves where you do, er, why?) and hifi that makes a spaghetti junction out of most of his polished wood floor space. Plus a computer and PlayStation 2 and younger woman—ten years his junior, five foot nothing with dowry, primed to iron shirts and make pies and cakes, which I never wanted to.
Elizabeth is kissing Darcy, probably with tongues. Minstrels bag is empty and a bottle of Chardonnay has somehow disappeared. I’ll text Fran and see if she’s in.
MESSAGE SENT
How are you Fran? Are you doing anything? Fancy a chat? Hxx
Nothing back. Probably switched off, or with Daniel finalising the finite details of contingency plan C should contingency plan B fail.
Ten o’clock and I’m going to bed. I want to cry. No, no, I’m not going to cry. I’m going to put some music on and bop around the room. ‘This Love’ by Maroon 5. Yep. Have that one. I’m dancing slowly, then slowly undressing. Yep, slowly undressing. I don’t need a man to satisfy myself after all. Some music, some wine, some Minstrels,
the right mood and hey presto, I can do all the turning on. I dance over to the front door. Lock from the inside, just in case Sarah comes back early, before her mother does. Blinds drawn, curtains closed, lie on sofa and begin to stroke. First, very gently over my stomach and then up to my nipples and along the underside of my arm. Very slowly around my breasts, the left then the right, then down to my belly button and toward the arrow. The stroke becomes more urgent and I feel my back starting to arch and imagine my fingers are someone else’s pushing deep inside me then out again, as I imagine someone else urging me to come.
BROOOOMMMMMMMM.
My mobile has received a message. The sound my phone makes when receiving a text message resembles a Formula One racing car just crossing the finishing line. Strangely appropriate I think for the present moment. I refuse to stop but the noise has taken the urgency away and I sit up semi-euphoric in a state of mild frustration, on the verge of coming but unable to. Expecting the message to be from Fran I read it.
MESSAGE RECEIVED
Sorry I couldn’t meet tonight. Hope you had a good evening. Case went on too long. If you fancy a chat or drink later on call me. Joe.
I stare at the message. Friendly and to the point, text lacks intonation. I’m often having an argument with Fran
about texting and e-mail for this very reason. Just because people can communicate doesn’t mean they can communicate. And I don’t know if he expects me to call him now later on, or later on this weekend, or if the suggestion to call him was meant or just a cursory suggestion, not meant to be taken seriously. But I’m feeling aroused because I’ve just been on the verge of coming and I’m reading the message and it’s from Joe and the two events aren’t mutually exclusive. So I call.
‘Hello, Joe. It’s Hazel.’
‘Hello, Hazel. Sorry about this evening. The case went on longer than expected and you know Jonesy (Jonesy is Harvey Reginald Joines, cantankerous judge who should have been dead a long time ago), well, we were stuck there because of him, but you don’t want to know this. Are you still game for a drink?’
‘No. I’m a bit tired now. Have, er (thinking of what I’ve been doing), been chilling out.’
‘No worries, just a thought. I’m staying in tonight as well.’
Silence. Perhaps he expects me to say something, or suggest he comes round, or that we go out. But I don’t want to go out now. I’m happy by myself, and was very happy by myself until he rang. So although I still think Joe Ryan is intriguing, I want my Friday night to myself, with the pleasure of my own company. So I don’t fill the silence with idle chat or suggestion. I let it lie.
‘Well, perhaps next week one day after work.’
He sounds dejected but I don’t care. I’m half aroused
and have had too much to drink and if he comes round now, may do something I will regret not just in the morning but the rest of my working career. I’m sure he doesn’t fancy me and it’s just my imagination so I might make a fool of myself. And I don’t want to. So I’m practicing the safest sort of sex. Joe Ryan will just have to stay in by himself and mope or do whatever he’s doing.
‘I don’t know. I’ll see.’
He says ‘bye’ and puts the phone down before I can respond. Obviously, he’s pissed off that I would rather stay in by myself or else he thinks I have a man here. Actually, I prefer him to think the latter, perhaps he’ll consider this a challenge.
Now, right, where was I. Oh yes, on the sofa.
BROOOOMMMMMMM. I must remember to turn that fucking mobile off. Who is this from?
MESSAGE RECEIVED
Sorry I disturbed you. Joe.
He’s disturbing me again by apologising for disturbing me. This is silly. I ignore the message, turn off my phone and slowly, very slowly, make myself climax. Disconcerting thing is, I’m thinking about Joe at the time.