The Younger Man by Sarah Tucker Page B

same room, sit down, there’s a tension that won’t go away. Like two magnets, we’re inevitably drawn together, though we sit at furthest corners of the table so that the attraction isn’t too strong or recognisable in front of others.
    I notice more about him. The way he laughs—a warm open laugh. His smile—easy and wide. His voice—quite soft for someone who has to stand up in court and be heard. He talks to me, of course. He occasionally mentions Fiona. I ask if everything is okay. He says fine. I sense it isn’t but don’t press as it’s none of my business. It’s not my stuff and I don’t want to make it my stuff. I like the way he does business. The way he speaks to clients, being firm but unpatronising. I like the way he talks and listensto Marion, who is now smitten with JR, as she calls him. Does that make me Sue Ellen, I wonder? I like him. But I tell no one, except Fran, who tells me I’m doing the right thing. Behaving responsibly.

Chapter Nine
Lunch With the Girls
    S unday. Meeting the girls for lunch at Pont de la Tour. Large round table by the window in the corner. Crisp white tablecloth. Oversized wineglasses. The place has been our regular haunt for years. All mobiles must be switched off for the duration or they get thrown in the Thames. We’re here ostensibly to party because we are all forty this year. Or to commiserate. And to decide what madness we want to do to celebrate four decades of living and breathing on the planet. I have a coterie of friends who are all unadulterated babes. Some of them have had children, some of them still behave like children, especially when we’re all together. But none of us, to my knowledge have had any nips or tucks or Botox and we’ve all worked very hard at life to look this good and be this lucky.
    There’s Fran, the soon to be married. Carron, the soon to be divorced. Valerie, the soon to be mother. Doreen, the soon to be CEO of one of the largest multinationals in the country. And me, who’s been married, divorced, given birth, made partner in law firm and is soon to be getting laid. I hope by a man ten years my junior who somehow manages to excite me just by knowing he exists. We all went to the same infant and junior school. We are all totally different, and to my knowledge, we all love each other and talk with a candour about everything that would make most men blush. And does, when they have an adjacent table to us at any restaurant where we deign to have our meetings. We haven’t seen each other for four months. I’ve seen Francesca more because I’m her maid of honour, but the others have all been travelling or away or doing something.
    Doreen is late. She’s always late but we forgive her because she has a huge budget and works in a highly testosteroned office of men in their forties who are deeply in awe of her and want to fuck her. She tells us so herself. She works on a Sunday so that she’s two steps ahead of everyone else on Monday morning. Married to Mick the Big Dick (due to the size of his ego) with three hot-housed children all at St Paul’s. She’s worked hard for the seat on the board. Got the Chair through sheer hard work and hasn’t slept her way to the top. She is loaded. As in financially, as in her own right. She’s been studying martial arts so she can, as she puts it, ‘slice the fucking head off anyone who suggests I’ve sucked or fucked my wayto the top.’ Quite. Five foot nine, size ten, Gucci, likes using word fuck, visits personal trainer three times a week (exercise and sex), cheekbones to slice a diamond with. Lived many lives in one lifetime already. Doreen kicks arse—ours and her own.
    Carron, former MD of advertising company and soon to be divorced from dick brain Dennis. She is at the stage where she is tragic and numb and very wired and doesn’t know really where she is and what she’s doing. She’s at the phone-friends-at-three-o’clock-and-four-o’clock-and-five-o’clock-in-the-morning