The Younger Man. Sarah Tucker
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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’resurprised. 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.