Читать книгу The Younger Man - Sarah Tucker - Страница 14

We’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’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. 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.