The Younger Man. Sarah Tucker

little room, which sort of surprises me given her reassurance I would be eaten alive. I feel strangely liberated. Almost schoolgirl excited about the thought of seeing Fran and telling her (not showing her, we’re not that close) about the arrow. Fran and I meet once a month at the Club, for herbal teas and sugar, gluten and fat-free flapjacks (they taste like solidified saccharined porridge, so sort of safe comfort food), and catch up on the latest gossip that’s accumulated over the past thirty or so days.

      Francesca or Fran as I call her, interior designer, also thirty-nine, one of my best friends, soon to be married for the first time to Daniel, series director for long-running critically-acclaimed excellent-rated series Unreality TV on Trial, whom I’ve arranged to meet in the café with her newly curled eyelashes.

      I walk past the emaciated Traceys, the toned coaches, the spindly wives and mistresses, past floor-to-ceiling mirrors, surveying everyone in their reflection—not wanting to look directly at any of them, for fear I’ll turn to stone. Or worse, become one of them. And I stop for a moment as I glimpse myself and think hey, I don’t look bad. Angie was right, despite all that I’ve gone through with the marriage, divorce, psychotic ex, childbirth, childlike boyfriends and broken hearts, I don’t look bad on it.

      Fran, five-nine, curvy in all the right places, looks like Betty Boop. Her eyelashes have been overpermed. She’s a good friend so I say, ‘You look like Betty Boop.’

      ‘Thanks for your support.’

      ‘You should sue.’

      ‘It’ll calm down. Just that I have particularly long eyelashes so it’s taken well, according to Jane.’

      ‘Jane being the woman who’s done this to you.’

      ‘Yes. Anyway, how’s your Brazilian?’ she asks.

      ‘It’s quite sexy. She’s given me an arrow. Which points up.’

      Fran laughs. ‘Sounds intriguing.’

      ‘Yes, I’m hoping men will be intrigued.’

      ‘You mean, turned on, excited, aching for you.’

      ‘Yep, that’s what I mean.’

      Fran orders two peppermint teas and two bars of solidified porridge.

      ‘How are the wedding plans going?’ I ask, knowing full well everything is fine tuned.

      Fran is getting married in a few months’ time. She is organised. I know Fran is organised because I am her maid of honour and I know every minutiae to the politics of coordinating the reception, honeymoon, flowers, food, guest list and wedding present list. I know there will be no hymns, as no one sings them anyway. I’ve met the Keith Richards lookalike saxophonist who will play ‘Blue Moon’ while the register is being signed. I’ve met (and already slept with the lead singer of) the hip band who do excellent cover versions and will be performing after the speeches at the reception in the Abbey in Chalfont St Mary, where Fran and Daniel have their five-bedroom cottage, recently extended with cinema and games room. I have sat through every dress fitting of the bride (there have been six). I know the politics of which family doesn’t like which family and therefore must not, under any circumstances, be sat next to one another for fear of distracting from the pleasure of the day. I know she doesn’t like Arun lilies. I know her mother does and that last week this led to seventy-two hours of silence between bride and mother of the bride. Fran won. I know what she wants left out of the groom’s and best man’s wedding speeches and what she wants in. Daniel knows, too. She wrote the speeches.

      ‘Are you happy with all the wedding preparations?’ I ask, knowing full well she is.

      ‘Yes, Hazel. Very happy. Think all my hard work is paying off and it will be a very happy day. Only thing we can’t guarantee is the weather and I’ve heard about this spiritual healer who is very good, and I’m going to see if I can get on her good side and ask if someone up there can do something about it. Never know, worth trying.’

      Anyone else and they’d be joking. Fran is serious. I continue to drink my tea.

      ‘Do you like your dress?’ she asks.

      ‘It’s lovely, Fran. And I do appreciate you asking me to be your maid of honour, but, well, I still think, are you sure it isn’t a bad omen having a divorce lawyer, and a divorced one at that, as your maid of honour. I’m not exactly an advocate for happy relationships, am I? In fact, quite the reverse.’

      ‘Of course not, Hazel. You’re my best friend. And, well, I’ve thought about these things, as you know I do, as you know I always do. And it’s a good way to keep Daniel on his toes from the start, if you know what I mean. Anyway, how are you then? How’s work, still seeing Dominic?’

      Dominic was a barrister to whom I used to give a lot of work. Tall, dark, angularly handsome, recently divorced with three children, he was into hunting, shooting and fishing and was extremely athletic and competitive in the bedroom as well as out of it. I burnt more calories having sex with Dominic for thirty minutes than I did spinning for sixty minutes at GoForIt. And it cost me less. He was also quite sweet. That was until I discovered Dominic was bedding the female clients I was asking him to represent in court. I was miffed. As his pimp, I felt at least he should have given me some sort of commission. Anyway, Dominic and I were no longer an item—a team, in or out of the court or bedroom.

      ‘No Fran, we’re no longer together. It was a physical thing anyway. He was very good-looking, handsome, and I enjoyed his company. Fun and funny.’

      Fran looks at me as if she’s looking through me.

      ‘He was seeing the clients wasn’t he?’

      I look at her and smile, but I’m a bit glassy eyed.

      ‘Yes.’

      Fran stares at me for a bit, then says, ‘Hurt you, didn’t he?’

      I am not going to cry. I am not going to cry. I am not going to cry. I am a hard woman. A strong woman. A tough woman. It was a physical thing anyway. I understand what men are like. What makes them tick. It was just physical. Okay, I thought his children were lovely. And he was lovely when he was with them. And he was lovely with Sarah, too. I loved having breakfasts and lunches and suppers with him. And he was interesting and well read and I liked his taste in music. And he made me laugh. And I’m thinking, visualising him now. And things like this happen. I am not going to cry.

      ‘Yes.’

      A tear trickles down my face. God, so many tears in one morning. I must stop drinking so much water.

      ‘Liked him, didn’t you?’

      ‘Yes, but, well, he had baggage. I do, too.’

      ‘Perhaps. Depends how you package it, Hazel. How well you carry it. You carry yours well. Baggage only becomes a problem when you carry it around and offload it onto those around you. He sounded nice, but he had issues. You talked about him a lot, you know. Your relationship wasn’t just physical. It wasn’t to you anyway. What happened?’

      I tell Fran about the clients. In a matter-of-fact way, without tears, embellishments or use of the B word.

      She listens, sipping her tea, expressionless. She has a good poker face.

      ‘Well, everything happens for a reason. You’re worth more than him. Now hug.’

      We hug. Like friends who’ve known each other for decades hug—without a hint of self-consciousness even in a public place like GoForIt. And a few more tears fall. Silent warm ones, onto her pink cashmere Paul Smith cardigan.

      We finish the teas and bars and order two more teas.

      ‘Apart from Dominic, anything or anyone else new or on the horizon?’

      ‘There’s a new partner who starts on Monday. Joe Ryan. Came from Wilhouse Smyth. Oxford, sharp, good reputation. And young.’

      ‘How young?’